Firearms and Fiction

J.D. sighting the Barrett, about to punch paper at 200+ yards.

Below, the simunitions exercise; April's lovely bruise; Trey and April demonstrate that a gun is not superior to a knife if it starts in its holster.








November 2005



As a published author, I had the opportunity to attend the Second Amendment Foundation’s Firearms and Fiction Seminar early this month in Las Vegas, Nevada. It was such an outstanding experience that I feel to fully justify my attendance I should become a best-selling author. I intend to do my best in this regard.

Going into the seminar, I wasn’t sure quite what to expect in the matter of instructional quality. I had a copy of the agenda and particularly looked forward to the forensics presentation and the firing range, because even boring instruction can’t kill those. And, since the course was in Nevada, I counted on getting to fire a .50 caliber Barrett and some kind of automatic weapon. Let’s just say the old single-shot, bolt-action .22 Springfield I learned to shoot on is not a particularly sexy gun, and you don’t see them much in action-oriented fiction.
I drove to Las Vegas Sunday afternoon and checked into the Imperial Palace hotel on the Strip. That evening I met the Tartaro family—Patriarch Joe, his daughter Peggy and his son Mark—as well as Alan Gottlieb at a reception in the fancy corner penthouse on the Imperial Palace’s top floor. I also spoke with some of the other guests, although I’m not very good with that schmoozing stuff, particularly when I’m shaping up for a migraine, and didn’t learn much.

After a couple of migraine meds, a light supper and a good night’s sleep, I woke up feeling great and ready for a day of classroom instruction. The introductory material was interesting, but not especially new to me. We got the requisite intro from Alan Gottlieb, founder of the Foundation, who is an entertaining speaker. He is very unassuming-looking, not at all the rugged outdoorsman or good ol’ boy type the press tends to depict when characterizing champions of the second amendment.

Peggy Tartaro, the editor of Women & Guns Magazine, gave a few examples of the kinds of errors from fiction that prompted the Second Amendment Foundation to begin giving seminars for writers. The petite lady who kept a 10 gauge shotgun for protection was my favorite, followed by the safety on a revolver. I’m not an expert, but those would get even my attention.

Continuing the theme of fact versus fiction, Mark Tartaro—formerly a police officer and now a trainer at the police academy—and John Mullins—retired Army Special Forces and current trainer for law enforcement, military and security—spoke from their own experience. John mentioned laser sights, and how cool they are in fiction. But when a tactical squad goes into a building together… “Which red spot is mine?” He also pointed out that the infamous North Hollywood bank robbers, who had body armor and automatic weapons, were not shooting to kill police officers. They were shooting to pin down the police so they could escape. Both speakers agreed that, when a police officer or soldier goes into a situation, the adrenaline gets pumping and the reactions are different. Very often, whatever training they may have had is long ago and too theoretical to do them much good.

At seven yards or less, a person wielding a knife or other non-firearm weapon is within your danger zone; you can’t clear and ready your weapon in time should the assailant decide to attack. Practicing the proper response is known as the “Tueller Drill,” named after Dennis Tueller, the police sergeant who wrote the original article credited with first establishing the importance of maintaining a “reactionary gap.” Later in the afternoon, Trey Minton, John Mullins’ Lead Instructor, and his lovely assistant April gave a demonstration. Armed with a dummy knife, she was on him from a distance of 21 feet before he could get his pistol out. According to Mark and John, it takes a minimum of 3000 repetitions of an action to burn it into muscle-memory. In spite of having plenty of practice, Trey just couldn’t beat April from a standing start.

Peggy wrapped up the fact versus fiction segment by noting that, when she, her father or Alan—civilians, as it were—spoke of firearms, they referred to them as guns. Mark and John—police and military, respectively—referred to them as weapons based on their different perceptions for their proper use. She pointed out that this distinction could give a more accurate flavor to fiction if used properly.
Joe Tartaro, president of the Second Amendment Foundation and editor of the New Gun Week, is a handsome and personable old gentleman (he even kissed me on the cheek when I left on Wednesday morning, which delighted me). I think he may have given his history of firearms a few too many times, however. I’m not sure if someone who didn’t know what he was talking about already would have taken much away from it. The presentation would benefit greatly from visual aids, and I’ve already started going through my photo files to find some pictures of antique weapons. I even have some of Elizabeth, Jeremiah and Gordon at last year’s schuetzenfest with matchlocks and a wheellock (although the lock is obscured by smoke—I need to find a better picture for that detail). Maybe I’ll cobble together a rough Powerpoint presentation, burn it onto a CD and mail it to Peggy. Considering that at least one of their authors at this session does historical fiction, it wouldn’t hurt for them to have a stronger historical component.

Surprisingly, Las Vegas, or rather, Clark County, does not have a public firing range, but that is about to be rectified. Don Turner, the former director of the Ben Avery range in Phoenix, gave a presentation on the proposed (and partially funded) Clark County Shooting Park. There’s quite a bit of land set aside for it, and the facilities planned are extensive. It should be a premier range in a few years, assuming its earmarked funds don’t go to New Orleans disaster relief instead. To wrap up his talk, Don showed a montage of photos from Ben Avery, presumably to show what Clark County’s facility could be in a decade or so. I can’t be sure because it went by so quickly, but I think I saw a picture of my mom and dad in front of their store marquee at the Western Nationals Rendezvous of the NMLRA.

During lunch, which was a serve-yourself buffet affair in the meeting room, I took the opportunity to show around the photo of Evan and his granddaddy in the Our Journey through High Functioning Autism and Asperger’s Syndrome book I had brought. This picture was taken at the Oak Glen rendezvous when Evan was about twelve. He wore his Plains Indian regalia, while my dad wore his dragoon uniform, and both of them proudly displayed guns appropriate to their attire. A couple of people expressed disappointment that I didn’t have any pictures of myself shooting, and interestingly enough, I don’t seem to have any. It’s kind of hard to take that sort of thing oneself.

About the time I had settled back in my chair with dessert and coffee, Torrey Johnson, a criminalist with the Las Vegas Police, asked if he could borrow a good bit of my table to set up his stuff. Since I hadn’t brought a guest and had sat at the front, I had the ideal location, and I was delighted to let him lay out his little bags right there in front of me. He had slugs, shells, bits of plastic, loads in clear cases, cutaway barrels…a regular treasure trove of ammunition forensics evidence. He did have a PowerPoint presentation, just recently transferred from 35 mm slides, and his talk was fascinating. I could have listened to him for several more hours. He spoke about what is involved in figuring out what weapon may have been used in the commission of a crime, and mentioned numerous difficulties.

Certain pistols leave characteristic marks, which can narrow down the field, for example. But reloads—where brass is modified, especially—can lead an examiner astray. Plastic sleeves, called sabots, may not be recognized for what they are at the crime scene; detectives may consequently look for a smaller caliber gun than was actually used. Evidence may be badly handled. In one case, Torrey recalled a detective coming to him saying, “Oh, there was a second bullet,” and fishing out a wad of keys and a mangled bit of lead from his pocket.

Even when the bullet has been properly handled, “ballistic fingerprinting” may be difficult. The examiner will fire several rounds from the suspected gun to see how well those controlled bullets match up. If there’s pretty consistent matching, then those bullets will be compared with the bullet found at the crime scene. But sometimes even under carefully controlled conditions, a gun will not produce a consistent “fingerprint.” Under those circumstances, there is no point in comparing any of them to the original.

Torrey also spoke of the plan of factory fingerprinting with scorn. He pointed out that it is difficult enough to search the existing database for a possible match. Adding every gun to come off the assembly line to such a data base would make such a search logistically impossible. Further, guns don’t develop their characteristic pattern until after they’ve been used for awhile, rendering their as-new fingerprint obsolete very quickly.

He was even more dismissive of the idea of stamping cartridges with serial numbers which would then be registered to individual purchasers. Not only would this make things difficult at the factory—what happens when one of the carefully serial-numbered shells is defective? Do you hand-stamp one to fill out the box? And even worse, when you’re at the range, you’d have to be extremely careful to find every last bit of brass you expend lest someone else pick it up for later use at a crime scene.

I bought Evan a CSI: Crime Scene Investigation Las Vegas t-shirt as a souvenir (my mom went to Vegas, and all I got was this crummy t-shirt), but I understand that Torrey gets rather steamed whenever he watches the show because of the inaccuracies. Since I’ve never watched a CSI show, I’m not sure what in particular bothers him, but I can guess. Fiction, particularly TV and movies, tends to make things more visual and dramatic with barely a nod toward reality. I know physics often gets savaged at the hands of directors—why not criminal investigation?

As a little side note, Torrey graduated from Antelope Valley High School, class of ’64. We compared notes about growing up in Lancaster, and where we went shooting as kids before he started his presentation. He actually managed to shoot jackrabbits, which I never did. Apparently there was a year the rabbit population got so bad that the alfalfa farmers positively encouraged this sport on their property.

I grew up knowing that I had a snowball’s chance of getting a concealed carry permit in Los Angeles County. Even bodyguards and others with very strong legitimate reasons couldn’t get permits from our paternalistic sheriff’s office. Presumably now that the Second Amendment Foundation has forced a judgment against this policy, I might be able to get a permit, and if I do, there’s an amazing variety of holsters and other carriers available. I can even get a very nice handbag or an unassuming fanny pack for the purpose. Gila Hayes, who is a firearms instructor and co-owner of the Firearms Academy of Seattle, brought an assortment for us to examine. We all got a bit of a giggle out of an inside-the-trousers carrier on its own belt called “Thunder Wear.” To me, it looked a bit like a codpiece, or a jock strap.

Later over dinner, when one of the authors was trying to decide where her heroine, a busty and glamorously clad lady, would conceal her weapon, several of us had suggestions. Obviously a shoulder or waist holster wouldn’t work, but we discussed the merits of a thigh holster or even a “thunder bra” before the author decided that, perhaps, a very special designer handbag would best suit her character.

Another highlight of the afternoon had to have been the Simunitions demonstration. John Mullins is the patent-holder for a type of frangible, or break-away, ammunition that can be used in situations where it is dangerous for a bullet to travel through walls. These bullets are lethal and can be used in unmodified weapons. They are not the same as the Simunitions rounds, which are soap, encased in scored plastic covers; these are loaded into standard brass casings for modified weapons and come in half a dozen different colors for identification purposes. When the bullet makes a solid impact, it leaves a lovely, fluorescent, aster-shaped splat and perhaps a bruise.

Trey (remember him?) demonstrated various ways to approach a potential danger situation, including the 21-foot reaction-time drill I mentioned earlier. He showed how big an advantage having your weapon out to start with gives. As a final event of the day, following a basic, essential safety briefing, those of us who wished had an opportunity to try out the Simunitions ourselves.

The first couple of people fired at the back of the cardboard safety briefing board, but the slugs punched right through and left bright-colored marks on the wallpaper in the conference room. After that, we used a Kevlar vest as a target, which proved much more satisfactory.
I tried both a modified Glock semi-auto and a service revolver, and at that time, I did not have a preference for one over the other. The Simunitions rounds do not kick or buck at all, nor are they particularly loud, and I couldn’t tell that my accuracy was especially great either way.

Once when one of the other women was shooting, one of her shots ricocheted and bounced off my décolletage. It didn’t hurt in the least, but it was surprising; I picked the bullet up off the floor and saved it for a souvenir. It gave me a chance to examine the design fairly closely. The thin plastic covering is scored in a starburst pattern across the point, which is what gives the characteristic daisy shape to the soap marking when it hits the target solidly.

Trey—and Big Davy (Dave Swanson, TCATT trainer and skip tracer) and Chris Pollman (TCATT Trainer)—as well as April and John are from Oklahoma, so naturally they’re good people. I talked with them a little as they were packing up before dinner and discovered that they’re from Weatherford, except John, who’s from Martha, OK.

Over dinner, I found out more about Gila, who was also there as a “single.” All of the guests had been given a substantial pile of books about a variety of different aspects of guns, and Gila had written one of them, Effective Defense. Another of the people at my table was Karmela (with a K—she didn’t know what her mother was thinking), an action-romance author who had been a journalist and who has her first novel coming out next year. Not surprisingly, she was very good at asking questions, so I learned to hang around with her and just listen as she pumped the experts. She was the one with the question about concealed carry for a woman whose clothing is rather revealing. I found her blog .

I had a little time after dinner to do some souvenir shopping, and I got Evan a CSI: Crime Scene Investigation Las Vegas t-shirt at Harrah’s next door to the Imperial Palace Hotel. I also got Glen a shirt, but nothing quite so apropos to the class—just something more appropriate for him. Souvenirs in hand, I walked on to the Venetian, meandered along the Grand Canal and then blundered my way back out to the Strip (once Vegas hotels get you inside, they really want you to get lost in their casinos). I viewed the Mirage’s world-famous volcanic eruption from across the street and then went back to my own hotel and to bed. That was pretty much the extent of my Las Vegas Experience.

Tuesday morning I had a good breakfast and met with the gang at the appointed rendezvous, near the parking garage. We got off to a good start in spite of one of the authors getting lost on his way through the hotel. No one gave him any grief over this, since I think all of us had experienced some navigational difficulty in the Imperial Palace at one point or another. Besides, Joe Tartaro had assigned a meeting time fifteen minutes prior to the time he actually wanted to leave, so the tardy author arrived on time. Joe loaded up his thousand rounds of ammo into the back of his rental SUV, and two groups of us headed out.

The Desert Sportsman’s Range is just off Charleston Boulevard west of town. It used to be out in the middle of nowhere, but now there is a housing tract fairly nearby, and even a casino. Behind the target ranges themselves, however, there are hills, and then nothing for miles.
Before shooting the serious stuff, TCATT set up a Simunitions exercise for us. I volunteered to go first, partly because I didn’t relish the idea of being sequestered in a van gabbling with the other participants until it was my turn to go.

Trey took me into a shed by one firing range and had me “ghillie up”—put on protective gear comprising a neck protector, a helmet and a Kevlar vest. Once he had confined the other subjects in the van, Trey returned and questioned me about the most important person in my life—male or female, big or small. So I said male and medium, at which Trey told me they only had big or small. He went on to explain that this person is out in the back yard barbecuing when I hear a suspicious noise; I am to go out with my pistol at the ready. At this, he handed me a pistol and magazine with four frangible rounds, which I inadvertently racked twice, expelling one cartridge. Then he left me standing facing the back of the shed while he set up the scenario.

At last he came back, led me out and prompted me out past the firing line onto the gravel. I took quick stock of the situation. About fifty feet from me, a woman with a black semi-automatic pistol stood threateningly over a man lying on his back with his hands up as if to fend off a blow. She was yelling—what, I couldn’t understand—and he was pleading. Of his words, I only picked out “No!” Presumably, he represented my husband.

Not wanting to draw her attention or startle her in what was obviously a tense situation, I stepped lightly through the coarse gravel just past the target benches into the finer, quieter gravel beyond. This would serve two purposes: not only could I approach more quietly, she would be less likely to see me peripherally. Once I reached a distance from which I felt I could shoot with sufficient accuracy, I opened fire, hitting the woman on the left side of the back, below and to the left of the shoulder blade, possibly in the axillary area. I noted that my three bullets made a tight group about the size of an old-fashioned silver dollar or a little larger, but did not splatter. At this point, Trey put his hand on my shoulder, and April (of course it was April) turned around and looked at us. I assume Trey hollered “marshmallow,” as he did with everyone else to end the exercise, but I didn’t hear it.

Trey immediately debriefed me—what they call “Kumbaya”—and I told him what I had seen, heard and decided, though nowhere near so cogently as here. My adrenaline was pumping like nobody’s business. No roller coaster I’ve ever been on can touch it, and only a few driving situations come close.

After my exercise, half a dozen others went through a similar simulation. Without exception, everyone else spoke and got shot at. Some of them got their hostage shot as well, and most of them got shot themselves. I think only a couple managed decent hits on the assailant. The moral to this story: It ain’t a game, so you don’t owe the bad guy a sporting chance.

Afterward, I gave some thought to my own, apparently atypical reaction to the exercise. Raising autistic kids, one of them quite prone to violence in his early years, has made me inclined to act rather than argue. I also got adept at sneaking up and grabbing Glen when he was in an explosive mood without getting hurt…much, anyway. Fortunately, he’s mellowed, because he’d steamroll me now. I’ve also read every Louis L’Amour western novel in print at least once, so I’m more into “Injunning up” than Miranda rights. And who knows—maybe all of those redoubtable pioneer women (and men) in my family tree bequeathed me a “killer instinct.”

The inability to discern words during the exercise is typical, however. In fact, several presenters had spoken of this the day before. When an individual experiences an intense situation, the “lizard brain” can take over, which is why it is important to practice. In this way, a police officer, soldier or private citizen can learn to observe, think, act and listen all at the same time, even in life-threatening circumstances.

Later in the afternoon, April showed off a lovely circular contusion along her left side. Although it was further forward than I would have expected, she told me that evening that I was responsible. I suppose her loose clothing made me think I hadn’t hit her quite so far over to the side, but I had expected to leave bruising. My bullets didn’t splatter, which would result in a greater transfer of energy to the subject than if they’d expended energy in deformation.

The TCATT crew gave an even more dramatic demonstration of energy transfer immediately following the simulation exercise. They put seven one-gallon water jugs at about 20 feet and shot them with ever-increasing fire-power to show everybody the kind of energy involved. John Mullins pointed out that the energy increases proportional to the increase in the mass, but as the square of the increase of the velocity. Higher-velocity magnum rounds of the same caliber impart significantly more energy than standard rounds, as dramatically shown in the demonstration. I got a couple of good photos, although they’d have been better if I’d had a tripod. I have to admit I flinched a little. One pair of pictures is particularly interesting. In the first, you can see water spraying out the back, while the jug has moved toward the shooter a little, and in the second, the jug, pretty much empty, has come to rest a good five feet closer to the shooter than it started.

Finally we got a chance to get our mitts on the guns ourselves. I made a beeline for the rifles, since those were mostly quite different from anything I’ve shot before. I started out with a .308 caliber Reminton 700 ADL heavy barrel sniper rifle with a 6x14 mildot optic sight, and it was love at first shot. It had a nice, solid feel and fit beautifully; I also really like scopes. Then I tried a .308 FN-FL semi-auto battle rifle, a .223/556 AR 15/m4 carbine, and a standard AR 15 A2 heavy barrel rifle. Considering their calibers, they were heavier than I would have expected, and their sight arrangement wasn’t the most accurate I’ve ever used. Still, they were all quite fun to shoot, even if the targets were far enough away I have no idea how I was hitting. I wish I’d thought to bring a spotting scope. I think I have one somewhere.

After this, I wandered down the line a bit to see what was available and found Mark Tartaro standing alone by three revolvers. Apparently one does not refer to modern revolvers as pistols—a couple of instructors were quite clear on this nomenclature on Monday. I started small, with a .22 Ruger Bearcat single action and worked my way up through a .357 Smith and Wesson (I almost bought one of those back in 1976, but someone else beat me to it) to a .44 magnum Ruger Red Hawk 5-inch. The first two were fine, even if I found the trigger pulls rather stiff, but the .44 was a brute. I had to really work to squeeze the trigger, and when it went off, it bucked back hard and uncomfortably into the web between my thumb and forefinger. I wasn’t keen on taking a second shot, but I did. I’m not even sure if I hit the target, but I did get a guy standing near and behind me with the blowback.

Then Trey unpacked his baby, a .50 caliber Barrett m82a1 semi-automatic big-bore rifle, complete with sniper scope. He set it up on a makeshift bench forward of the covered range, since nobody wanted to shoot something that loud under a roof. Since it had its own bipod legs to prop the barrel, and we weren’t shooting competition, a simple wooden table was fine.

Everybody would get a chance to shoot it once, and this time I wanted some time to anticipate the moment, so I did not leap up to go first, or even early. I had wanted to try out a Barrett for years, ever since I first heard about the rifle. Fondling one at E3 (Electronics Entertainment Expo) in 2004 only whetted my appetite, and I had been counting on the Firearms and Fiction Seminar to have one at the range.

I expected it to be loud—earplugs and earmuffs together loud—and it was. People in the nearby housing tract were probably muttering about some fool out shooting an elephant gun or cannon, or something. And the brass it expends is huge. I’ve shot .50 caliber muzzleloaders for years, but there is something arresting about an empty shell that is four inches long. That gun has authority.

Finally I couldn’t wait any longer, and I stepped up to the line. Trey helped me get set at the bench, and Chris took my picture. Then they stepped back, and I lined up my cross-hairs on the center of the bull’s-eye some 200 yards away; without the scope, I could barely see the target paper, but with, I had as clear a sight picture as if it were at 20 yards. I made sure the butt was snugged into my shoulder and that I had a good cheek-weld, took a breath, let it out partway, held it and squeezed the trigger. When the gun went off, it shoved me back solidly, but I wouldn’t call it a kick; I’ve been punched harder by a shotgun. The bullet raised a big plume of dirt from the berm right behind the target, too.

I picked up my trophy brass, very carefully, with my fingernails because it was hot, and went back behind the firing line to savor the experience. Later, when Trey offered anyone who wanted a second shot, I thought there’d be a line and was astonished when hardly anybody took him up on it. I did, though, and now I have a pair of lovely brass candlesticks for ½” candles, assuming I can ever find any.
Shooting an assortment of pistols and a 12 gauge shotgun, even loaded with buckshot and then a slug was a little anticlimactic after that, but it was still fun. I quite liked the accuracy of one of the pistols, but I can’t remember now which one it was, a Glock (9mm model 19 & .45 caliber model 21), a Smith & Wesson or a Sig Sauer. Since I’m not likely to acquire any of them, I suppose it doesn’t make much difference, but I’m inclined to think it was neither a Glock nor the S&W. I seem to recall it had a safety lever rather than the Glock’s unusual trigger-guard safety mechanism, and it had a bigger caliber than the S&W’s .22. At any rate, the numeral “10” still sat tantalizingly unmolested in the center of one target, and I completely punched it out with my last several shots from what I believe was either a Sig Sauer p220 or p225.

I still hadn’t had a chance at John’s fully-automatic .223/556 Ruger AC (based on an M14), and that had been another objective of mine: to shoot a machine gun. John later mentioned that he is the inspiration for the character of John Mullins in the Activision videogame Soldier of Fortune, and he still does on-site “consulting” work for various government agencies including the FBI and State Department. Perhaps as a consequence, his weapon is the two-hand pistol version with the metal frame extension stock, since it is a lot more portable than the three-quarter wooden stock version.

The 556 has three settings: single shot, three round burst and full-auto. John had me start with a few singles to get the feel of the weapon, and then a couple of triple bursts. After this, he set it on full automatic and had me do triple bursts until the magazine emptied; I started low so that my last shot, presumably, also would hit the target. Then he brought out a fresh 20-round magazine and suggested I go for broke. As anticipated, in automatic mode that Ruger writhed like a fire hose. I sprayed lead all around the target, but who knows if I hit it, even if I certainly scared the hell out of it. My shoulder also collected a few minor red contusions, but I get worse from some of the weight machines in the gym. I still enjoyed showing them off at the computer game store on Wednesday when I went in to try to find a copy of Soldier of Fortune (Glen has misplaced his). The young salesclerks were suitably impressed. In fact, they were almost out of their minds with envy.
The only things I didn’t get around to trying were a .22 caliber lever-action rifle and a 1911 Colt .45 semi-auto. Since I’ve shot both kinds of things before, I didn’t make any particular effort to shoot these. Instead, I hung around and listened to various people exchange tales of getting shot and so on.

One guy accidentally shot himself through the flesh of his forearm when he tucked his pistol up under his elbow so he’d have the use of both hands. John Mullins had been shot a couple of times, presumably in Vietnam. One shot, a flesh wound through the leg, he bound up, took morphine and kept going. The next time, he caught it through the intestines, which was far more serious—he showed us a surgical scar that extended from his navel into his pants.

All too soon, it came time to leave the range. This gave us a couple of hours between our return to the hotel and meeting for dinner, which was plenty of time for a shower and a change into nicer clothes. I also took advantage of the opportunity to load my photos onto my laptop so I could run a slideshow before the meal started. Another participant had had the same idea, so we had two computers running side-by-side.

I had a chance to sit between a retired police officer (Mark Tartaro) and a skip tracer (Big Davy) at dinner, so I got a few more interesting stories about law enforcement. I also got an excellent dinner. Afterward, I took a few photos of “Da Boyz” from Oklahoma and then tamely went to bed. Las Vegas night life seemed terribly tame after a day like that.