least they know I’m as good as everyone else in the shoothouse.
It’s my turn. I crouch in the first door, listen for a beat, and peek in. Mom isn’t in the kitchen today. I back out, turn, and cross the hall to the next room. I crouch and listen again. There’s not a sound. I swivel into the room crouching. I’m just about through the door when I sense something behind me. It’s too late. It’s a man. He hits me with the full force of his body, hurling me to the floor, knocking the air out of me. He pins me to the ground with his knee. He’s big, heavy, and I can’t move or breathe. He yanks my left arm behind my back, the one without the Glock. Then he grabs at the gun. I pull my arm free, stick two fingers through the trigger, and wrap both hands around the barrel of the pistol andhang on. We roll across the floor, with him yanking at the barrel of the gun. I manage to pull it away and shove the gun between my legs, my hands locked around it. He gives my right arm a hard yank, but can’t pull it away. He jumps up and runs out of the room. “Fantastic!” a voice exclaims over the intercom.
I walk out of the shoothouse shaking, trying to get my breath. Carlton, a very large African-American instructor who’s helped me all through the course, walks up to me. He’s breathing hard too. He says I’m the last one he would have thought he couldn’t take a Glock from. He shakes my hand. “You’ll do well in a bar fight.”
The last day of the course we sit at our tables cleaning our Glocks. Jeff comes over and tells me to go outside and see Carlton.
Carlton is standing there with a 12-gauge shotgun and a box of shells. He says that if I can keep him from grabbing my weapon, I can do this. He knows I haven’t picked up a shotgun since the day I failed to qualify, and I can only think he’s counting on sheer confidence to get me through it now. I take the shotgun and the box of shells and follow him to the range.
I load three shells and put six in my pocket. Carlton blows his whistle. I take a deep breath, point the shotgun, and squeeze the trigger, evenly and steadily. I fire all three and combat-load three more. I walk up to the fifteen-yard mark and fire three more shells and reload. I walk to the ten-yard mark and “cover the threat.” Carlton blows the whistle a last time, and I fire the last three.
Carlton walks over and looks at the slug holes in the silhouette. “Nice. All center mass.”
I notice Jeff has been watching the whole time, and he walks over.
“I’ve got the first assignment, and it’s yours if you want it,” he says.
I’m sure I’ve misunderstood him. “Excuse me?”
“Ever been to Texas?”
It’s not exactly overseas, but I spend the next ten days in Houston with Jeff and Carlton, guarding the queen and a princess of an Arab royal family. We drive in a motorcade formation, weaving in and out of traffic, blocking cars coming up on our rear. One day I escort the queen and princess to tea at the Ritz Carlton. Another, I shop with the princess for lingerie at Nieman Marcus. I stand behind the queen as she gets her hair blown out, my hand on my back around the Glock. One evening I sew a button on a dress for the princess. I would like to see any of the guys try that.
In the CIA, training never really stops. It seems like I’m in some course every couple of months, either on a range requalifying or blowing something up. But somewhere along the way I realize that all the training is not just about learning how to shoot, but as much about building confidence in yourself, learning things you never thought you could. It’s also about bonding, not a whole lot different from military basic training. They want to see if you can work in a group, follow orders, get along, and think on your feet. It’s all a safe way for them to see who has common sense and who doesn’t. Better to find that out in training than in the field.
I would carry guns overseas when that was what the
It’s my turn. I crouch in the first door, listen for a beat, and peek in. Mom isn’t in the kitchen today. I back out, turn, and cross the hall to the next room. I crouch and listen again. There’s not a sound. I swivel into the room crouching. I’m just about through the door when I sense something behind me. It’s too late. It’s a man. He hits me with the full force of his body, hurling me to the floor, knocking the air out of me. He pins me to the ground with his knee. He’s big, heavy, and I can’t move or breathe. He yanks my left arm behind my back, the one without the Glock. Then he grabs at the gun. I pull my arm free, stick two fingers through the trigger, and wrap both hands around the barrel of the pistol andhang on. We roll across the floor, with him yanking at the barrel of the gun. I manage to pull it away and shove the gun between my legs, my hands locked around it. He gives my right arm a hard yank, but can’t pull it away. He jumps up and runs out of the room. “Fantastic!” a voice exclaims over the intercom.
I walk out of the shoothouse shaking, trying to get my breath. Carlton, a very large African-American instructor who’s helped me all through the course, walks up to me. He’s breathing hard too. He says I’m the last one he would have thought he couldn’t take a Glock from. He shakes my hand. “You’ll do well in a bar fight.”
The last day of the course we sit at our tables cleaning our Glocks. Jeff comes over and tells me to go outside and see Carlton.
Carlton is standing there with a 12-gauge shotgun and a box of shells. He says that if I can keep him from grabbing my weapon, I can do this. He knows I haven’t picked up a shotgun since the day I failed to qualify, and I can only think he’s counting on sheer confidence to get me through it now. I take the shotgun and the box of shells and follow him to the range.
I load three shells and put six in my pocket. Carlton blows his whistle. I take a deep breath, point the shotgun, and squeeze the trigger, evenly and steadily. I fire all three and combat-load three more. I walk up to the fifteen-yard mark and fire three more shells and reload. I walk to the ten-yard mark and “cover the threat.” Carlton blows the whistle a last time, and I fire the last three.
Carlton walks over and looks at the slug holes in the silhouette. “Nice. All center mass.”
I notice Jeff has been watching the whole time, and he walks over.
“I’ve got the first assignment, and it’s yours if you want it,” he says.
I’m sure I’ve misunderstood him. “Excuse me?”
“Ever been to Texas?”
It’s not exactly overseas, but I spend the next ten days in Houston with Jeff and Carlton, guarding the queen and a princess of an Arab royal family. We drive in a motorcade formation, weaving in and out of traffic, blocking cars coming up on our rear. One day I escort the queen and princess to tea at the Ritz Carlton. Another, I shop with the princess for lingerie at Nieman Marcus. I stand behind the queen as she gets her hair blown out, my hand on my back around the Glock. One evening I sew a button on a dress for the princess. I would like to see any of the guys try that.
In the CIA, training never really stops. It seems like I’m in some course every couple of months, either on a range requalifying or blowing something up. But somewhere along the way I realize that all the training is not just about learning how to shoot, but as much about building confidence in yourself, learning things you never thought you could. It’s also about bonding, not a whole lot different from military basic training. They want to see if you can work in a group, follow orders, get along, and think on your feet. It’s all a safe way for them to see who has common sense and who doesn’t. Better to find that out in training than in the field.
I would carry guns overseas when that was what the
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