Carts & Horses
If you see a door sign like this, you should:
A. Make a “dynamic entry” with your 1911
B. Make a “stealth entry” with your AR-15
C. Ask yourself, “Do I really wanna do this?”
D. Duhh …
I was standing back away from the crowd in front of the “kill house” and thinkin’, “Dude! I don’t even like the sound of that …”
See, I’ve been in some places with names like “Ambush Alley,” “Shrapnel City,” “Bloody Hill,” and such, and in my experience, they tend to be noisy, dirty, unpleasant places where you get bushwhacked, fragged and dinged a lot. No room service cocktails, either.
But this was in the U.S., in a “world-renowned tactical training center,” and my “kill house” is what the “professional operator” called a drab two-story cinder-block structure. It didn’t look very scary. I thought it looked pretty upscale compared to, say, downtown Mogadishu — or Cleveland.
“There are three heavily armed terrorists, maybe more, hunkered down in my kill house,” the professional operator warned gravely. “They may be armed with AKs, Makarovs, RPGs and grenades. You’re alone! All you have are your wits and your weapons. Now,” he went all squinty-eyed an’ serious, “How would you go in?” The students, whom he pronounced “stoonts,” shifted uneasily in their Rambo-Robo Soldier getups. No takers. The ProOp Dude sneered at ’em and growled …
“Not a clue, huh? Well, if it were me,” and I swear, he launched into some kinda armed gymnastic-modern-ballet routine, barking, “I’d quarter-cut the dangled angle of the fatal funnel of that door, do a dynamic entry with a half- Immelman tuck-n’-roll, come up in my trademark Modified Weaver-Beaver SnapShot Semi-Squat Stance, triple-tap Terr No. 1 with my EXX-TREME Ops Pro-Ninja 1911, do a Devil-Duck Dive over to the stairway, stop in my FierceFightingFreeze position, execute a Rapid-Ranger-Recon-Peep while Keebler-Kneeling Wheeling 17 degrees left, and …” — and at about that time I lost him.
Dirty Dancin’
He was talkin’ so fast and doing such weird choreography I couldn’t concentrate. I wondered what kinda music his routine could be set to. Something very “new wave,” with penguins stomping silverware on a flat tin roof, I think. Two minutes later, he had dramatically — theoretically — neutralized three terrorists with 100% accuracy using maneuvers like the Tank-Turret-Twist- N’-Tap and another one I didn’t catch, but it looked like Wile E. Coyote, crazed on crystal meth, attacking a chandelier.
“Well,” the winded-but-victorious ProOpDude wheezed, “Who’s first?” Still no takers from “The Stoonts,” who now looked distinctly uncomfortable in their 82-pound Ninja Commando Turtle outfits. This seemed to delight Dangerous Dan. He herded ’em up, snappin’ at their heels, and one at a time, he simulation-slaughtered ’em in the kill house, maintaining a supercilious sneer throughout. “The Stoonts” were sweat-soaked, financially fleeced, demoralized, and had learned exactly squat. I was kicked-back-comfy in old khaki’s, sippin’ coffee when he turned on me like a pudgy pit bull.
“MISTER Connor,” quoth he, “How would you go in?” “I, umm, wouldn’t,” I said. That stopped him. “Uh, that would be, umm … stupid. I’d be up there about two clicks,” pointing to the hills, “Calling in a fixed-wing bomb strike or askin’ for a time-on-target from a battery of 105s.”
I will always treasure the “Huh?” look on his face …
A not-brief-enough verbal volley ensued. I pointed out — besides the obvious idiocy of entering at all — the three nearby rent-a-cans. If I had to be close, I’d wait until Dagmo or Haji came out to take a leak or grab a smoke, then drop ’em like a box a’ rocks from cover. It went downhill from there. I reminded him he’d said I could use my wits. When he replied that I had to go in, I asked if I could use my cell phone. “Yessss!” he snarled, “But there’s no armed backup available!”
“No problem,” sez I, “I’d just dial up the Suicide Prevention Hotline and tell ’em Help! I’ve gone terminally stupid! Stop me, please! — then hope for the best.” That downhill slope got really slippery.
Professional Operators/Trainers — The above is:
A. Your typical Baltimore carjacker
B. Your typical Biloxi convenience-store robber
C. The way your students typically dress for an evening at
home with the family
D. Duhh … Oh, get real, ya idjits.
More Effective Morons
Okay, I was sorta being a smartass. The guy ticked me off. I was there as an observer reporting to the investors, a buncha good guys who are smart enough to know they’re not skilled trainers. I’ve sprinkled some literary parsley on the scenario, but it was truly moronic, and it illustrated some problems I’ve seen too much of in police, military and citizen training. You know what they are already, don’t you?
The cart goes behind the horse, not in front. Make sure the basics are drilled in before you get exotic. Even if you succeed in teaching shooters some tricky techniques, if you haven’t taught ’em how to rationally assess threats and options, you’ve only created more effective morons.
Ask “why?” before asking, “Why not?”
Teach — and learn — what’s needed by real people for their real-world lives. If an insurance broker needs to know how to survive a convenience store holdup or home invasion, don’t truss him up like a turkey in tactical togs and have Bin Laden blow him outta his boots. Finally, never teach people how to lose and die. Winning and living are so much more pleasant, followed by a refreshing beverage. And …
Best Teacher? YOU!
Sorta coincidentally, I hooked up with a “stoont” later. Two minutes of chat told me what he needed — and he knew it already. I asked which handgun he shot best. He pushed aside his pricey custom autos and sheepishly pulled out a vintage Model 10 Smith & Wesson. We rapidly established that he was concentrating too much on pulling the trigger when he had a perfect sight picture, and he needed to just go with a good sight picture and work on a solid, controlled trigger press. Significant improvement was virtually instant.
“That’s exactly what my shooting partner told me,” he said. The only reason he hadn’t taken it to heart was that his buddy wasn’t a “professional operator” at a “world-renowned tactical training center.” Just a smart guy. Like himself. Like you.
Then we examined his typical day, week, business, banking, shopping, and home situation — a simple threat assessment. Over dinner and drinks, he taught himself a ton about lowering his availability as a victim/target and knowin’ when to hold ’em, when to fold ’em, and when to grab his cards and run. He went home to buy more .38 Special ammo. The next week, he was practicing shooting in his business suit, at bedroom-to-hallway and ATM-visiting distance.
He gave me lotsa credit. Besides that mistake, he was the smartest guy in that steak joint.
Dangerous Dan? He’s professionally operating a metal-detector wand and rummaging through your checked luggage. Ninja-style, no doubt.
