On Target
By Vicky L – Originally posted on www.File40.net
The muzzle velocity of a Walther P.38 is three hundred meters per second, so it is nearly impossible to berate one’s partner while a bullet travels from a gun to its mark. Nevertheless I squeezed in sixty feet of mental invective.
“Good shot, sir!” Mark Slate congratulated Mr. Waverly on his bull’s-eye in the heart of the target.
“Hmmm.” Waverly passed the new U.N.C.L.E. Special to Slate. “Let’s see what you make of it.”
“Me, sir?” Considering his enthusiasm for the prototype, Mark should have been happier. His eyes slid to Napoleon, who smirked like a man who wins most of his bets.
“If you please.”
Mark switched the gun to full-auto and placed six shots respectably close to our chief’s. Behind him, Emil Bucher, from Small Arms Research, made a satisfied noise. Bucher had spent six months modifying the pistol to accept a host of attachments. But, while lacking the flaws of the old Mauser-based Special, the prototype was less accurate than a P.38. A point we’d debated for hours while the air in the indoor shooting range grew closer, tempers hotter, and Emil Bucher and I progressively less pleased with one another’s company. I could have dragged them all to an outdoor range, of course, where the gun’s defects would have been more obvious. But that seemed pointless, since I’d already judged it inadequate.
Mark reloaded with a look of relief. He set the Special on the wood table separating men from projectiles.
“Mr. Solo?”
Napoleon copied Waverly’s bull’s-eye on the second of three targets. At sixty feet, even Napoleon can make a good shot.
“I like the flash suppressor,” he commented. “And the tighter action’s a plus.”
Emil Bucher repeated his noise. Mark, who’d joined Napoleon in betting the gun would pass muster, positively beamed. What Mark didn’t know was Napoleon cared less about his bet on the gun and more about making a spectacle of my opposition to it.
Waverly faced the last man in our party. “Mr. Matthews?”
Paul Matthews untangled himself from the chair he’d crammed into a corner. He muscled between Bucher and Slate, passed me his own gun, and ran the Special in and out of his holster two or three times before plugging the third paper man in the belly.
“Biggest target on a Thrush.” Paul winked, trading the gun back to me. He returned to the corner and resumed his improbable slouch.
“Mr. Kuryakin?”
I centered one round in the head of each target.
“There.” Bucher gloated. “All excellent shots.”
“Indeed,” Waverly agreed. He looked at me—through me—for the second time in five minutes. “Is it true, Mr. Kuryakin, you and Mr. Bucher have exchanged harsh words concerning his role in the German SS?”
We’d exchanged words on Bucher’s lack of role and the concept of sins of omission. But this wasn’t the right time to quibble. “Yes, sir.”
“Do you wish to withdraw your opposition to Mr. Bucher’s design?”
What I wished was to strap Napoleon to a fresh target and give the Special a more rigorous testing. “No, sir.”
“And you gentlemen see nothing wrong with the gun?” His gaze crossed the room like a searchlight.
Paul shrugged. Mark shook his head, but Napoleon spoke up.
“No, sir, though I don’t believe Illya’d let bad feelings interfere with good judgment.” He was wrong. I was more and more tempted to shoot him.
“I see.” Waverly picked up the Special. “Mr. Bucher, your prototype is deficient.” He placed the gun in the researcher’s hands. “Fix it.”
“But…!” Bucher’s cheeks flushed. “But…!” His larynx bobbed. “Yes, sir.” Herr Bucher beat a hasty retreat.
Our boss followed at a more dignified pace.
“Excuse me, sir.” Mark stepped in front of Waverly’s raised eyebrow. “If I may—we’ve been firing all morning and gotten the same results with the Special as our unmodified P.38s.”
“Yes?”
“How could you judge the gun in just a few minutes?” Mark shifted back a step. “Sir?”
“Ah.” Waverly paused, extracting his pipe from a vest pocket. “I don’t judge guns, Mr. Slate.” He pointed the pipe stem at Mark. “I judge men.” His gaze swept us again. “Exactly how much money did you lose in this matter?”
“Erm.” Mark swallowed. “Twenty dollars, sir.” The reckoning was twenty each, from Mark and Napoleon to Paul and myself. But I wasn’t counting my chickens.
“I’ll take payment,” Waverly said, “if no one objects. I’m sure our Orphans’ Fund can make better use of it than these gentlemen.”
Mark surrendered a half dozen bills, supplementing with change from his pocket.
Waverly nodded. “I believe I’ll collect the same from you other young men as well.”
Somehow that didn’t surprise me. I paid him, feeling a renewed sense of gratitude toward Napoleon for sticking my neck out once again.
“Perhaps next time,” Mr. Waverly stepped into the doorway, “you’ll keep me out of your wagers.” He left and the door sighed shut behind him.
Napoleon smiled.
Mark crossed his arms. “Will someone explain what all that was about?”
“They’ve put one over you, mate,” Paul snickered. “And I’d pay another twenty t’ see it again.”
“But why? Napoleon could have quashed the stupid gun in the first place!”
“True,” my partner agreed. “But if I’d taken Illya’s word against Butcher’s—after they’d been at each other all morning—it would have looked bad. This way the gun flunks and we come out with reputations intact.”
My reputation, mainly. Then again, I’d be the one looking ridiculous if Waverly’d accepted the gun.
“Well, I’m delighted to have been of service,” Mark sighed. “It will make eating celery for five days so much more appealing.”
For him, perhaps. I passed my last five dollars to Napoleon, who’d bet me, secretly, that his plan would succeed whether Waverly caught him or not.
“Gentlemen,” Napoleon tucked my money into his shirt. “this week lunch in the cafeteria is on me.”
* * * * * *
Note: This was written as part of a 1000-word story challenge on Channel_W (the results of which are online at www.file40.net). It probably should have been longer!