Velocity




Velocity 

 

The m16 is an air-cooled, gas-operated, magazine-fed, shoulder fired rifle. It was first fielded in 1962. At 8.8 ponds the M16 is light enough to be carried in any engagement. It has twenty-seven moving parts that can be disassembled and reassembled in less than two minutes. This rifle fires a maximum of two hundred rounds per minute. Its purpose is to provide personnel with an offensive/defensive capability against targets in the field.

 

  Squeezing the trigger releases the firing pin, which impacts the primer on the loaded round. The primer ignites the propellant inside the round. Gas from the burning in the barrel causes the round to rotate which provides stability during flight. When the round reaches the end of the barrel, expanding gases from the burning propellant pass out through the gas port and into the gas tube. Gas goes into the bolt carrier assembly, ejects the spent cartridge, and chambers a new round.

 

  The M16 has an effective range of four-hundred sixty meters. Peak accuracy is achieved when the front and rear sights are aligned on the target. 

When the m193 round penetrates the target it splits to create multiple wound channels. These channels pierce vital areas and increase internal hemorrhaging. The bullet is designed to incapacitate, and wounds that incapacitate may not be 

fatal. The M16 magazine holds twenty rounds.

One round can kill.

 Closure               

The first light of dawn breached over a nameless mountain, breaking through the twilight that He and his men had endured. It was cold here, even in summer here, even colder than Ireland. It looked like Ireland here, the long green windswept grasses, the grey sea weathered stones, and the white gulls that cried on the shore. He was a world away from there now...

His boots were slamming against the turf as the munitions fire screamed overhead, the RFNA gas choking him as he ran. It was moving so fast, The rattling of automatic rifles pierced through the morning air, and the the muzzle flashes flickered like fireflies. It was surreal, something that couldn’t be described outside of the experience. This was unlike what he had thought it would be, what they told him it was, or what you read about or what you see on tv. 

He lifted his rifle to spray the hill with suppresive fire, but as he squeezed the trigger his squad mate stumbled into his firing arc. He watched the rounds of his automatic rip through his mates uniform like paper and saw the blood spatter onto it. They were small red spots.

He watched him tumble down and heard the others scream for a medic, and knew it was too late. 

He awoke with the glass tumbler in his hand, still full with gin and slightly melted ice. He rubbed his head, beaded with sweat. He pushed the glass away, got up, and went to make a pot of coffee, knowing he wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight, and maybe the next night as well.