As they ran together, they were also able to talk, and Kransky was also able to actually get to know his new running partner as a result. Before he’d realised it, he was suddenly enjoying the running more for the positive effect on his own fitness than anything else, and was also thinking of the woman running beside him more as a friend; her potential as a possible sexual conquest beginning to fade as a result. He still wasn’t convinced she wasn’t flirting with him some of the time, but unless proven otherwise, he was willing to assume that his suspicions were simply a combination of his relative inexperience with women and his not being accustomed to women of her era — an assumption that was mostly correct.
Refreshed by a shower and change of clothes after that morning’s run, Richard Kransky made his way past the admin buildings and over to the flight line just before noon that Wednesday, heading for one of the larger hangars. Eileen had asked him to meet her there to go over some work she’d had done on the machine pistol and rifle he’d brought with him from France. She’d been less than forthcoming on what modifications or alterations she intended to make, and although he trusted her judgement he was by nature less than comfortable being without either weapon, or with trusting their care and maintenance to another person.
A well-equipped machine shop had been set up in the rear corner of the nearest hangar, half-hidden away beneath poor natural lighting and ventilation. Although the standard of the equipment, which included a large lathe and a ten-ton press, was nowhere near that of the computer-aided examples Eileen Donelson was accustomed to dealing with at the start of the 21st Century, she’d been well aware of what to expect and had spent quite a few months reacquainting herself with manually-operated equipment she’d not used since completing her engineering degree.
As Kransky walked through the hangar, Eileen was wearing a long and slightly over-sized white lab coat that hung open over jeans and a nondescript, loose-fitting T-shirt of neutral grey. A blue baseball cap marked “CG54 USS Antietam” in gold braid was snugged down on her head above a pair of orange-tinted protective goggles.
“Does the ‘Engineer Look’ suit me, d’you think?” She smiled as he drew near, holding her arms out from her sides and drawing attention to her dress.
“I’m sure that will be the style in Paris next year,” Kransky replied with a grin, now relaxed enough around her to make jokes he’d never dreamed of, not so long ago.
“Actually, sir, I must correct you there,” she smiled back, removing the goggles and placing them in the pocket of her lab coat. “I do believe Field Grey will be all the rage in Paris for quite a few years.”
“I’d say it’ll probably be ‘required wearing’ in Westminster too, soon enough,” Kransky conceded with a wry nod, “although I’m hoping maybe we can do something to delay that. You had a few things to show me?”
“Aye, that I did, Richard… and that I do.” She gestured for him to follow her across the concrete floor to a long set of workbench that lay hidden amid lathes, presses and other large pieces of machinery. Bare light globes providing barely adequate illumination hung suspended on single long, twisted cables from the hangar’s roof, and the atmosphere in general was tinged with the faintly acrid smell of machined metal and the operation of heavy electrical equipment: evidence enough that Eileen, the only other person in the building other than Kransky, had been working there just before he’d had arrived.
She lifted his prized MP2K machine pistol from the nearest bench and handed it across to him. Its curved magazine had been removed, but Kransky also noted that it was now carrying several quite obvious modifications. A 20cm sound suppressor had been fitted to the muzzle, adding around half a kilogram to the weapon’s weight and making it notably more ‘muzzle heavy’ — something Kransky suspected would probably help keep the weapon under control and reduce its tendency to rise under recoil.
Above the weapon’s receiver, a strange type of sight had also been fitted. Its base was no more than 120mm long, and atop the rear half of it was mounted a thin metal tube perhaps half that length and slightly less than 50mm in diameter. From an acute angle, the inside of the tube appeared to be clear, but as Kransky instinctively lifted the MP2K and squinted down along the top of its receiver, he found that a small, amber-coloured dot appeared within the centre of the sight’s lens. As he turned and moved the weapon with him, still staring through the sight, he found that the dot tracked true to the weapon’s aim no matter where he pointed.
“You’ll find it’s best used with both eyes open,” Eileen suggested, watching intently, “and it’ll make bringing the weapon onto target much faster. It’s called a ‘reflex’ sight… again made by Trijicon, the same as the scope on the Barrett rifle.” It seemed irrelevant for her to mention the manufacturer, considering there was no likelihood it’d be in any way significant to Kransky, but she felt compelled to anyway: it was in Eileen’s nature to concern herself with detail and minutiae when it came to ordnance.
He raised the machine pistol again, this time experimenting with keeping both eyes open as he aimed. He was impressed that his eye seemed to naturally find the sight and the aiming point beyond it. He could instantly see how much faster he’d be able to effectively bring the weapon into action in a firefight with the sight fitted.
“I know the thing’s not goin’ to be a ‘tack driver’ at the best o’ times with a barrel of only three or four inches,” Eileen explained, moving to stand beside him as he continued to practice aiming, “but with the right sights, the nasty little bugger should be combat effective for single shots out to fifty or sixty yards — maybe a hundred, if you’re good enough…”
“Hey…!” Kransky shot back, catching the cheeky glint in her eye. “You might have the edge on me out on the track, but don’t rag on me about my shootin’…!” He’d learned the truth over the last few days regarding the woman’s prowess at long distance running, and had felt extremely embarrassed that his ego had allowed him to be so easily fooled by her pretty face.
“Mister, I don’t care how good you are; if you can hit anything smaller than a tank with this thing at a hundred yards, I will kiss your arse!”
“Yes… you’re probably right…” he admitted rather lamely, having no idea at all how to reply to that remark. “That silencer will come in very handy…” It was time to change the subject, and both of them were in agreement on that judging by the suddenly-uncomfortable expressions on both faces.
“Aye, that it will… and so will this…” She turned and picked up what appeared to be a small and quite compact pair of binoculars, pressing a small button on the unit’s top surface, between the lenses before handing them over.
“I need a new set of field glasses…?” Kransky began to ask, MP2K in one hand as he lifted the binoculars with the other.
“Look at the far end of the hangar, then press and release the large button on the top,” she replied simply, and he did exactly that. Leaning across to gently return the machine pistol to the bench, he raised the field glasses to his eyes and focussed them on the far corner of the hangar. The 8 x 45 magnification brought the distant walls into clear view, and a small red circle appeared at the centre of his field of view as he pressed the larger of the two buttons atop the unit. As he followed Eileen’s instructions and released it once more, a small set of red digits reading — ‘56’ — appeared directly beneath the aiming circle.