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specified by a computer program. We can get the kind of careful quality thousands of rounds by thousands of rounds that you can get round by round on your Lee or RCBS or Wilson or whatever dies it is you use.”
    Bob looked down at the round in his hand.
    “I’ve gotten some pretty damned fine .308 groups over the years.”
    “But you’ve had to
work
to get them, is that right?” said the colonel.
    “Yes sir, that’s right.”
    “That’s it, in a box. It’s a natural for the police market, which is considerable. Later, maybe we’ll expand to the civilian if we can establish a law enforcement reputation.”
    “So what is it you want from me?”
    “Mr. Swagger, I’m looking for a professional shooter to fly around the country and put on shooting demonstrations for police departments that are upgrading their SWAT capabilities. But I need a man with a reputation. A man who’s been in hard places, kept his head, and come back alive.”
    “Why don’t you get Carl Hitchcock? He’s famous. They wrote a damn book about him and made up a poster. He’s number one.”
    “Carl is making too much money on the personal appearance circuit. They pay him two thousand dollars just to appear at a gun show for one day, did you know that?”
    “Carl always was a lucky boy.”
    “We have a facility in Garrett County, Maryland, where we’re doing our testing. What we’d like to do is fly you up there for a weekend at our expense, of course. You bring your favorite rifle, your favorite handloads. Okay? Then you can go out on the range with some of our shooters and engineers, fire our rounds and your rounds side by side. We think if you do that, you’ll see how our rounds group consistently with your own. That’s all we ask. Your forbearance. Give us a chance to let you believe. If you believe, all else will follow.”
    Bob had no real need or urge to leave his mountain. The fact was, except for getting his hair cut, picking up magazines and his government check at the post office once a month and a chat or two with old Sam Vincent and now and then having a routine checkup on his health or his teeth, he hadn’t been down in five years.
    “It would be a great job,” said the colonel. “I’d fly you around the country and you’d be with men who’d respect you. You know, the world has changed since Vietnam. They say the Vietnam syndrome is dead. We had a war that we won, big time, and now everybody who was in the military can be a hero again. You’d get exactly what you didn’t get the first time. You’d get respect and love and appreciation.”
    Bob made a sour look. He’d believe it when he saw it. But he knew he couldn’t stay up here forever. He looked at the rifle cartridge. He was curious. Goddamned thing looked like it would shoot the tits off a mother flea, but there was only proof in the shooting, not in the looking. But he heard it singing to him in a strange way. Poked. He was poked in the head. Hadn’t been poked in the head since he’d given up the drinking.
    “When?”
    “When’s convenient?”
    “Can’t leave now. Got a rifle gone barn sour on me. Say, next weekend?”
    “Well, all right. Whatever. You have a credit card?”
    “Yes, I do.”
    “You go ahead and charge your tickets. Keep all the receipts and we’ll expense it out. Or, you could sign a contract now and we could write you an advance check and—”
    “No thanks on the contract.”
    “I didn’t think so. And do you want to be picked up at the Baltimore airport or rent your own car?”
    “I’d take the car, thank you.”
    “It’s done.”
    “Then that’s all there is to it,” said Bob. “Now I have to feed my damn dog.”

CHAPTER THREE
    Bob made his inquiries discreetly. From Bill Dodge’s Exxon station on Route 270, he called an old NCO buddy who was a master sergeant going for his thirty, now working Personnel in the Pentagon, and put certain questions before him. The next day, the friend replied with a