"Now the grenade is ready for use, but it's not armed until you pull the pin. It has a kill radius of 50 feet and does a lot of damage beyond that. To throw it, set your feet apart, hold this lever tight with your right hand and put your index finger of the other hand through the loop on the pin."
He showed her the arming position.
"Then you pull the pin. As long as the lever is held down it won't go off. You can reinsert the pin if you have to. Hold it next to your gut when you arm."
He demonstrated. "The way you pull the pin is to pull the grenade away from it, not the other way around. It requires a firm pull. Then you let fly and duck. You've got about 4 seconds before it blows. If you ever have to do this, just make sure it goes a long way away from you."
"You really expect me to throw grenades?"
"No. I just think you should know how it's done. Just in case."
"You have a knife for me, too?" There was something in her voice.
"Yes, you'll have a knife."
"Are you going to show me how to cut someone's throat? Or stab them in the kidney or something?"
"Selena…"
"Maybe I should have a flame thrower. Do you have a flame thrower for me, Nick?"
"Selena, what's the matter?"
"Nothing. I don't want to talk about it."
"How can you not want to talk about nothing?"
"Are we done, Nick?"
"Yes, but…"
Selena turned and walked out. The door to the range slammed behind her.
He tried to figure out why she was angry. She'd done fine with the pistol and the MP-5. She'd put fifteen rounds of .45 armor piercing right in the center of a man sized silhouette and never flinched. She'd picked up the tricks of the MP-5 in record time and had cheerfully chopped those silhouettes into confetti, so what was so different about grenades?
He thought about it. A grenade compromises our humanity. It's a symbol of all the forces that make us turn our backs on what Abe Lincoln called the better angels of our nature. All packed up in a nice, olive green package. Selena hadn't been trained to kill, as he'd been. She hadn't learned to set civilization and conscience aside because self-preservation and accomplishing the mission demanded it.
You threw a grenade, everything within a fifty foot radius was DOA. A grenade was indiscriminate. It wasn't like a pistol. With a pistol, there was an illusion of control, targeting a specific threat.
Carter thought about that kid in Afghanistan, who couldn't possibly understand what he was doing. What could be more evil then grenades in the hands of children? How could anyone think God wanted that?
The afternoon had turned into a black hole. He began stripping the weapons to clean them. Ronnie walked in.
"What's with Selena?"
"What do you mean?"
"She just went by without a word, looking pissed. You have an argument or something?"
"I wouldn't call it that."
"How did she do with the weapons?"
"She did well. If we get into something, I think she'd hit what she was shooting at. She didn't like grenades much."
"You think she should come along? It could get pretty hairy out there."
"You don't think she should go?"
"She's a woman and she's a civilian. She's not combat trained. She could get herself or us killed if we run into opposition."
"We need her. Without her we might not be able to figure out how to get into that complex. She's been under fire twice and she didn't lose it. Selena can take care of herself."
"Yeah, but she's never done anything like this. If we have any trouble she could be a real liability."
"I guess we'll have to make sure that doesn't happen."
"You going to be able to keep your feelings for her out of this?"
"Don't go there. You know me better than that."
Ronnie rolled his eyes at the ceiling, took a breath. They began cleaning the guns in silence.
After a while, Carter said, "How you coming on the logistics?"
"All set. I've got us a vehicle and everything we need. We'll transport to Dyess from Andrews, transfer over and be on our way as soon as Harker gives the word."
"Going to be an interesting trip."
"Roger that, buddy. I always wanted to see Tibet."
Carter found Selena upstairs. They walked out to the parking lot and got into her rented car. The ride back to the apartment was silent. One look at her told him he'd better not push it.
Chapter Thirty
Back in the apartment she disappeared into the bathroom. Carter heard her running a bath. He poured himself a double Jameson's and sat down. His land line rang.
"It's Shelley, Nick."
His sister only called when there was a problem or she wanted something.
"We need to talk about Mom."
"How's she doing?"
"She almost set the place on fire yesterday. I went over there and she'd left the soup on the stove and forgotten about it. The pan was burned through, the kitchen was full of smoke and she was sitting in the living room watching TV. She hadn't a clue."
"I thought those new drugs were helping."
"Those drugs are a rip off, that's what I think. Two hundred and fifty bucks a month and you get burned soup. George says it's a crime, you can't even deduct it."
"The soup or the drugs?"
"Oh, that's real funny, Nick. You're not the one who has to clean up after her."
She started in about his general anti-social tendencies and lack of family responsibility. Never mind the money he sent to help out. Never mind the times he'd flown out to be with his mother and see if there was something he could do. Never mind that he cared about his mother more than Shelley did, in spite of her self-righteous indignation. He'd heard it all before.
He cut her off. "What do you want, Shel?"
"Want?" She was getting angry, like most of the times they talked. "I want you to get her into a home, someplace where people will look out for her. I can't do this anymore. George says it's time you took a bigger role."
Her husband, the accountant. Carter thought he was a pompous ass.
"And what does George think that is?"
"You should take some time off from that stupid job of yours and come out here and find a place for her."
Shelley thought Nick was a paper pusher, working for some obscure government department doing meaningless, bureaucratic things she didn't want to understand. He let her believe what she wanted.
"What does Mom want?"
"It doesn't matter what she wants. She's not competent to decide what she wants. What she needs is for you to step up to the plate."
Now she was into sports clichés.
"I can't come to California right now. How about you and George look for a place?"
That set her off. Carter held the phone away from his bandaged ear while she shouted. He walked to the counter and poured another drink. He thought about telling her where George could put his ideas.
While his sister was busy yelling he thought about his mother. She was in the early stages of the disease, not far enough gone to forget she had a house or where she lived. Most of the time, she still knew who she was. She also knew she was losing it. It upset her, a lot. Living in her house was important to her, even if Shelley didn't think so. It wasn't time to move her out, yet.
"Shut up for a minute, will you?"
She stopped mid-yell. He heard a deep silence at the other end.
"She doesn't need to be moved out. Get someone to move in with her, a live in helper."
"We thought of that. George says it's just putting off the inevitable, why not get it over with? Her house will bring a nice price on the market. It would pay for her care."
Now he understood the urgency. Good old George, a solution for everything, with a nice, tidy sum to go in his bank account. The whiskey won out over family harmony.
"You tell George to go fuck himself, Shelley. You get someone to look after her, someone competent, and I'll help out with the cost. But don't even think about putting that place on the market and pushing her out of there. You and that asshole you call your husband try it and I'll make a lot of trouble."