"Abby Oakley"
Collaboration with
@sail3695
Joe finished off a bowl of chili and drank some water in the galley, then headed back to his room. He stored his rifles in a steel wall locker bolted to the bulkhead. He had cleaned both just yesterday when they were in the black and wasn’t worried about them fouling. He pulled both out and laid them across his bunk. Next, he searched for some ammunition and found three 50-round boxes of .30 caliber ammo for the M1 and two 50-round boxes of .308 for the sniper rifle. Honestly, he did not believe he would find any distance beyond two hundred meters in the jungle. Maybe he would get lucky. Next, he pulled out a satchel to put his ammo in. Before leaving he pulled a box of .357 ammo out and threw that in the satchel as well. With the rifles slung like an X across his back and the satchel hanging down over his left side, he headed down toward the cargo bay.
Hook’s notion of gettin’ in some shootin’ sat well with Abby. It’d been a spell since she’d done more than clean the Mosin. Since putin’ it back together, the gun needed some targetin’ adjustments, and bein’ out in the heat of Greenleaf would suit her jest fine fer tha task. The moment she seen the cook comin’ with his guns, the girl hefted a trash sack full ‘o’ their targets…empty “Captain Bob’s Cola” bottles. “I’m all set,” she give Joe a friendly smile. “Yew conjure where we’s headed?”
“Not a clue,” Joe smiled. “Ahm shore we’ll find somethin’. Let’s go.” They headed down the ramp. This was when they were able to see the rays of Zhu Que or the Red Sun. Its light rays were a bit different than the white star he was used to, but it did keep this planet quite warm.
The outskirts of Khao Lai were not that far away, but Joe wanted to avoid the city. “Let’s head this way. Proly find better shootin’ ranges away from the city.”
“Sounds fair.” She fell in beside ‘im, her sack ‘o’ bottles clinkin’ with each step they took. Abby kept an eye out fer tha yard hands as they went. Most like, one ‘o’ them could point the way toward a safe patch ‘o’ jungle or a landfill what might work for them. Weren’t long afore the heavy, damp air had her shirt stickin’ tah her frame again. “Yah know,” the girl said aloud as they walked, “I kept busy last night so’s not tah git real cold…but I’m mighty glad fer feelin’ it tha other way right now.”
“Work is a productive source of heat,” Joe allowed. “The jungle shore is purty, Miss Abby.” Within a few minutes, a young man came strolling along their path. Joe kept his eye on him. He appeared to be in his early 20s about 68” tall and lean with short brown hair and blue eyes. “Good day, suh!” Joe motioned to the man.
She give an enthusiastic nod as her eyes took in the approaching canopy of trees. While Hook flagged down a local, Abby only half listened as they talked directions. Her eyes was drawn tah all the color an life of the place. She thought of the Perfessor, an’ the sights he’d see while chasin’ down his orchid. He promised tah take snaps with his capture for her…specially if they seen one of them great big snakes out there. Abby pondered that, wonderin’ if Pen ever seen one.
She caught Hook’s wave, and drew back close. “Got a spot figgered out?” she asked.
“Aye, shore do. Only about a mile up this path on the left. He said it had some nice lines of fire out about five hundred yards. Ah don’ imagine we’ll get much better than that.” Joe kept walking. He took the occasional glance at the foliage. Mostly birds are all he saw…and heard. They were a very noisy group. “Ah shore didn’t expect to hear these birds serenadin’ us like this.” Joe pulled the M1 off his shoulder and cradled it in his left hand. He opened the chamber, pulling the handle all the way back, then allowed it to spring forward stripping a cartridge from the magazine and loading it into the chamber. He left the rifle at the ready as he walked.
Abby cocked an eyebrow. “Yer not fixin’ tah shoot one, are yah?”
“Ya never knows when ya might’n run into someone of poor intent.” Joe chuckled to himself.
Eventually, they came to the would-be range. It was only about fifty yards wide, but did extend out the half a kilometer, the gentleman on the road described. As it happened, a small wooden bench stood alone at the near end of the
range. “Hand me a few of those bottles,” Joe asked. “Ah’ll run them up the far end”
He leaned the H&K against the bench and took six coke bottles. Placing the bottles in his satchel, he trotted up the slight incline as far as he could. When he reached the far end, he looked back to ensure he could still see Abby.
‘If ah place the bottle on the ground, we may not see it back down there,’ Joe thought to himself.
‘What about hanging them from a branch?’ He considered the notion and realized he had some small strands of string. He tied the bottles on the string and then hung them from a tree at the edge of the jungle. He took about twenty steps back and surveyed his handiwork.
‘Ah think that will work.’ Pleased with his efforts, he ran back down to Abby who had apparently set some bottles up at a closer distance.
Abby’d set two rows ‘o’ bottles. The first was all sittin’ on tha ground at twenty-five meters from their firin’ line. The second row she paced out at fifty…right up to a big log somebody done used afore, if the shards ‘o’ glass an’ dinged cans lyin’ about was a sign. Once that chore’s done, she dropped to one knee an’ ejected the Mosin’s clip. With the gun layin’ crossways tah the range, she loaded five cartridges inta the empty clip. Then, the girl waited til Hook was back behind the line, afore loadin’ the weapon. “Nice work tyin’ them bottles,” she chuckled when he come. “I’s wonderin’ how I’d calculate windage.”
Joe placed the M1 on the ground next to the bench and reached for the H&K. He pulled out a 10-round magazine and loaded it with .308 cartridges.
As he finished his preparation, Abby sat cross legged on the ground, her back straight as she hefted the rifle tah sight it. She like the Mosin. ‘Twas a gift from Uncle Bob, who got it from a man couldn’t pay his fare on a run. A little readin’ on the cortex tole her that the gun design was six hunnerd years old, from Earth-That-Was. It was used by Russians to fight agin’ an invasion. She conjured she liked Russians, too. Account she read had women fightin’ right alongside men, an’ even women actin’ as snipers…usin’ a Mosin with a big scope. She thought one day to try’n find one.
Things got quiet with Hook. “Y’all set?” Abby lowered the rifle an’ glanced over her shoulder.
“Oh yea, ahm all set. Squeeze that trigger, Miss Abby.” Joe was about to get ready then remembered, “one more thing,” Joe muttered as he pulled a pair of small ear plugs from his bag. “You might want to put in a pair of earplugs.” He pushed them into his ears.
Then he inserted the magazine into the H&K and laid down on the ground in a prone position with his elbows out in front of him. He looked through the scope on the rifle, scanning for the bottles. He saw the bottles hanging from the trees. Then he pulled back on the charging handle to load a cartridge into the chamber. Then he pulled the scope back up to his eye, pulling the wood stock tight to his cheek. His left hand pulled gently on the foregrip as his right hand held a loose grip on the stock. He feathered the trigger. Looked through the scope. Breathing softly, in and out. Moved the crosshairs over to one of the bottles. Joe focused on his breathing as he placed the cross hairs up on the bottle. When it was lined up proper, he slowly exhaled as he started to squeeze the trigger rearward. He stopped breathing, waiting for the explosion.
The rifle jerked back into the pocket of his shoulder as the projectile exited the rifle. Joe watched through the scope. The strike of the round was almost instantaneous; maybe a fraction of a second. The glass did not break, but the bottle swayed in the breeze letting him know that his miss was only slight.
With a blowback operation, the explosion of the round, forced the bolt rearward to compress the buffer spring, then recoil forward to strip another round and lock it into the chamber. He checked the sights and relined the crosshairs up on the bottle. He pulled his elbows tighter together. This time, he stopped breathing just before slowly squeezing the trigger.
The rifle jerked a second time followed swiftly by a coke bottle shattering roughly 515 yards to his front. “Yes!” Joe muttered. “Got one.”
“Shiny,” the girl answered. She’d gone down on her belly, the Mosin propped twixt her shoulder an’ left hand while the right played at adjustments. Abby aimed on a bottle at twenty-five yards for linin’ up both front an’ rear sights. She took a tiny screwdriver tah nudge tha rear sight jest a notch left. Fer such a short distance she didn’t tweak elevation; this shot’s all about gettin ‘er tuned. She took a few minutes.
Move left, tighten, sight. Move right, tighten, sight. Finally, when she thought she had it locked, she hauled the bolt, hearin’ the inner workin’s chamber a round.
With the safety flipped off, she centered up on the bottle. A gentle finger rested on the trigger as she exhaled, checked her sight, an’ then squeezed. The Mosin barked, a deep, satisfying report an’ a recoil that punched her shoulder. At this distance, she seen the strike plain as day. The bottle took the hit but sent most shards flyin’ off right. “Tad more tweakin’,” Abby observed as she put the little tool to work agin’. “Think I’ma drop coin fer a nice scope like yourn.”
“It a good investmen’ if you wanna hit targets at range,” Joe suggested. “Juss keep doin’ what ya doin’ n’ yew git good. Ah got five mo’ bottles to take out.”
“Mosin’s specked fer five hunnerd on this sight. Last year I took down a couple Reavers ever’ bit’s far out as that,” the deckhand said. Jest need tah dial ‘er in, s’all.”
The rifle had chambered another round after he fired it the last time. He rolled back into his prone position and pulled the stock up into his shoulder. He pressed the stock against his cheek and pulled his elbows in tight propping the rifle up off the ground. He looked through the scope and moved the crosshairs onto a bottle while focusing on his breathing. When the sights were over the bottle, he stopped breathing and slowly squeezed the trigger rearward. The resulting explosion sent a third round down range. Again, he hit the bottle and it shattered.
Joe continued shooting at the four remaining bottles. He missed two but did hit the four bottles. “Now ah have no more targets up there. Need to use the carbine anyway.” He removed the empty magazine from the H&K. He loaded another ten rounds of .308 into the box magazine and reinserted it into the magazine well. The tenth round from the previous magazine was still chambered.
He placed the H&K against the bench and picked up the M1 Carbine. He pulled back on the handle slightly to ensure it was still loaded from earlier. It was.
Abby squeezed again. This time, the bottle shattered all even like. “That’s muh girl,” she whispered, happy with the lateral. After takin’ a third down, she set her sights on the fifty-yard line. First shot was a miss. Her brow furrowed, she took ‘er time, careful on the lineup.
Squeeze.
The bullet struck, but just a touch right this time. “Still not right…there,” she said as she rolled up tah sit. Her ammo spent; Abby popped the clip out fer a reload. “One more lil’ tweak,” she chuckled. Hook had settled in with a different rifle. She’d do him the courtesy ‘o’ holdin’ ‘er shots til he’s finished.
“That’s some purty nice shootin’ Miss Abby. Who learned you ta shoot?” Joe asked.
Hook’s question was innocent an’ well meanin’, but she blushed all the same. “I’s afraid yer gon’ ask me that,” Abby giggled. “Ever read
The Adventures of Buck Shot? I know, I know,” she met his stare with a full up laugh. “They’s silly cowpoke stories…but ever’ now an’ agin’ Ole Buck would teach cowboy stuff, like rawhide ropecraft, findin’ water, an’ such. I think they put ‘em in when the books was too short. Anyhow,” now she’s smilin’ at the memory, “in tha fourth book…
The Poutin’ Pistolera? Buck was all sweet on a Spanic woman. He taught ‘er how tah handle a rifle…how tah sight…how tah hit things. The love story weren’t no good, but the rifle teachin’? I wore them pages right out,” she grinned.
Joe had a large ear to ear grin on his face. “That is a wonderful story, Miss Abby. Ah cannot say ah ever learnt nothin’ by reading a book.”
“Maybe we go change some targets? Add a few more o’ the trash on the ground here?” Joe suggested. He shouldered his rifle and headed down range with the young deckhand. “We can git some beef stew in the galley when we git back to the ship. Then clean these rifles up. Always good to keep ‘em well oiled and cleaned. Ya’ ne’er know when you need one.” Joe suggested with an air of experience.
“Sounds fine,” Abby fell in at his side. Soon, they’s scoopin up dented cans an’ bottles what could still stand. “I think I got ‘er dialed in now,” she said. “Jest fer certain, I’ll put a couple down at three hunnerd? Then we can put the rest at five? That okay with yew?”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s a dandy idea.” They finished setting up additional targets and walked down the slope back to their firing line. He pulled the carbine off his shoulder and checked the chamber again. It was still loaded. He hadn’t fired it yet. The H&K was still loaded, and he left that down near the bench.
When they reached the bench, Joe offered a wager. “What say we test our shooting skills? You with the Mosin and me with the carbine here. No scope, all iron sights?” Joe looked at Abby. He honestly didn’t want to take advantage of her but thought it would be fun.
Abby shrugged. “Sounds like fun. Whatcha got in mind?”
“You put six bottles at three hunnerd yards and four bottles at five hunnerd yards. We each take shots at three of those six bottles at three hunnerd and shots at two of the bottles at five hunnerd yards.” Joe suggested this challenge while waving a hand toward the bottles, then paused. “But what to wager? I gave all mah buttons away.”
“Welllll,” she give it some thought. “Chores? I win, yew clean tha lav ever’ day we’s on the ground in Greenleaf? You win, I do all the dishes?”
“You’re on!” Joe smiled. “OK. We each have five bottles to hit. The one who can hit their five bottles with the fewest number of bullets wins. This carbine holds thirty rounds. Your Mosin has what? Five? Six rounds? Then you have to reload?”
She nodded at his estimate. “Five round clip. Wanna take the first shot?”
“Sure. Will do.” Joe assumed a good prone position on the ground. He propped himself up on his elbows and pulled them in tight. “I’m looking at one of the three hunnerd meter targets first.” Joe focused on his shooting. He lined the iron sights up with the bottle. The damn thing was quite small. He focused on his breathing. When his sight picture was ready, he stopped breathing and slowly squeezed the trigger. The shot was a surprise and true. It hit the first bottle. “Got one!”
Abby settled inta place, legs splayed an’ elbows propped as she sighted the Mosin. Took ‘er time linin’ front an’ rear sights. In ‘er head, Ole Buck was teachin’ again.
“Gotcher sight? Good. Now take a breath…let ‘er out nice an’ easy as ye touch the trigger. Give ‘er a gentle squeeze.” The Mosin barked, and tah her delight, that bottle shattered right perty in all directions. “There’s hit,” she smiled.
“Good job, Miss Abby!” Joe perked up. “You are not bad.” Joe’s semi-automatic rifle was ready for the second shot. He found the next bottle and looked down the barrel. He put the front sight post in the notch of the rear aperture. Then he placed that front sight post over the bottle and lined the top of the post with the top of the rear aperture. This area right there. The top of the front sight post was the sweet spot. He put that center mass on the bottle and tried to visualize as small of an area on the bottle as possible. When he was ready, he stopped breathing and gently squeezed the trigger. The report was again a surprise and the round hit the bottle dead on. “That’s two!”
“Gorram, but that’s got a voice on ‘im!” she chortled over her shoulder. “Nice shootin’. Changin’ up guns gotts be a challenge fer long shots.” She slid the bolt, sendin’ brass cartwheelin’ off at her side. Abby chambered her next round, an’ settled in tah take tha shot.
”Don’t overthink it,” the dime store novel cowpoke spoke in her mind’s ear.
”Just…squeeze.” She couldn’t hear the bottle shatter fer the backslap echo of the shot…but there it was, lyin’ in shards. “Two all! Durned if this ain’t gettin’ interestin’?”
“Ah honestly don’t mind cleanin’ the lav for the next three or four days.” Joe laughed. He looked down the barrel, located his third target and lined up the sights just as he did before. He squeezed the trigger and a split second later, that bottle was ruined too. “There’s number three!”
“Oh yeah?” Abby cracked wise. “I conjure there’s a better chance ‘o’ me gettin dish pan hands then yew scrubbin a commode,
dohn mah?” She laid in again…locked ‘er sights an’ squeezed. The Mosin roared…but the bottle didn’t flinch. “Uh oh. Should I go agin?” she asked.
“Take another shot. Ahm bound to miss on the 500-meter shot.” Joe encouraged her to go again.
She hauled tha bolt fer a fresh round, then took ‘er stance. “C’mon, old girl,” Abby whispered. “Let’s….do….” The gun spoke. This time, the bottle flew all tah pieces. “Alrighty then,” the girl said. “On tah five hunnerd…an’ I’m one behind yah.”
“Ah knew you could do it! Nice shot.” Joe looked at the 500-meter target. With the scoped sniper rifle he was able to hit six out of nine shots. Let’s see how well he could engage these with iron sights. He used the same technique he used on the last shot. This time he moved the aim point up to the narrow neck of the bottle to compensate for the drop of the round. Joe focused on his breathing, insured he had a good cheek to stock weld, elbows set, left hand with a slight pull towards the shoulder, stop breathing, squeeze the trigger and “Kablam!” the round struck near the bottom of the bottle, but it was enough to shatter it into small pieces. “That was number four, Miss Abby! You can do this.”
She laughed. “Five hunnerd meters…no windage, no elevation. Know what I can do?” she teased. “Dishes!” That cola bottle looked mighty small in tha distance. Surprisin’ she could even see it. Abby lined up, drew her bead on the center…and then edged up jest a whit tah the top. Afore she could lose her nerve, she fired. Took the round just a heartbeat longer tah travel, but when it sent that bottle tah oblivion her jaw dropped. “Holy cow…” she muttered.
“Ahm glad yer on my team, Miss Abby. Nice shot.” Joe pulled the rifle up and scanned for his second target at five hundred meters. He went through the same procedure. He squeezed the trigger and could see the round strike the dirt in front of the bottle. “Wo De Tian A” Joe rarely used Mandarin, but this seemed appropriate. “I missed one.” Joe hung his head low. “Yes, I could use your help in the kitchen. But looks like ahm cleanin’ the lav instead.”
She’d waited all quiet an’ still, so’s not tah distract Joe’s shootin’. “Aw,” the deckhand groaned as his shot struck dirt. “Ain’t nothin…jest means we’s tied up is all. She reloaded her clip, then got prone again fer the second five hunnerd.
Take yer time… Buck encouraged from his pages. [/i]Like ye got nary a care in the world…[/i]
The Mosin talked. Her last bottle listened, sparklin’ in the sun as it shattered. “I don’t believe it,” Abby’s jaw hung open.
Joe picked his head up out of the dirt. “Nice shootin’ Miss Abby.” He re-aimed the five hundred-meter target. He pulled the rifle into his shoulder and focused on his breathing. He stopped his exhale and squeezed the trigger. The next shot struck the dirt just to the right of the bottle. Then he looked over at Abby, “Ahm gonna start callin’ you Abby Oakley now. You got me, Abby. Ah git to clean the lav this week.” Joe stood up and checked his rifle. “How about we head back to the China Doll?”
“I still can’t…WHOOOOO!” the girl let loose as she come up off tha ground. “Yew good girl,” she give the Mosin a kiss on the handgrip. Abby couldn’t stop grinnin’ as she turned towards Joe. “Sounds good, but yew go first. I’ll pick up our spent brass an what glass can be removed. Lotsa animals about,” she said. “Joe, this was some fun. Thank yew!”
“You are welcome, Miss Abby,” Joe responded. “Yea, let’s clean up our range. Get ready to go back home.” Joe gathered his equipment. He unloaded his rifles but kept his pistol close by. Never knew what could be out there. “Miss Abby? Thanks for coming out with me today. This was fun.”
Joe and Abby picked up the brass and collected the small shards of glass. When they were ready, they began the two-mile trek back to the ship.
Once they returned to the ship, Joe went up to his room to get his cleaning kit and a towel. He then went to the galley to set up a spot to clean his rifles. Then he pulled out some left-over beef stew to eat before getting to work on the rifles.
Abby joined him, and the pair laughed over the girl’s newest nickname.
“Ok Abby Oakley. I’ll clean the lav after I do breakfast tomorrow,” Joe was ready to accept his new assignment.
1x Thank
