The first was Jeff Cooper.
I knew about him from my previous life. A legend of firearms training, the man who would lay the foundations of modern pistol shooting, create his own school, and write books that special forces soldiers around the world would study. But all of that would come a little later. Right now, in 1976, he was fifty-four years old and simply a former Marine teaching local sheriffs in Arizona advanced shooting techniques.
I flew to Arizona on Wednesday morning. The plane landed in Phoenix, and from there I drove a rental car. Three hours along desert roads, with only cacti and tumbleweeds breaking up the scenery. Cooper lived on the outskirts of town, in a small house with a porch. Behind the house stretched a vacant lot he had turned into a shooting range: targets at different distances, improvised cover made from old car tires and wooden shields, marked paths for movement drills.
When I arrived, a lesson was already underway. Three men in sheriff's uniforms stood in a semicircle, listening to instructions. Cooper showed something with his Colt, then demonstrated the movement. Weapon up, two shots, shift right behind cover, another shot. Then each of the sheriffs repeated the exercise while Cooper stood nearby and corrected them: stance, grip, elbow position.
I parked off to the side and waited. I watched them work through combination after combination. Shooting on the move. Shooting from behind cover. Shooting with the non-dominant hand. Fast reloads.
An hour later, the lesson ended. The sheriffs collected their brass, packed their weapons, thanked the instructor, and drove away in their patrol cars. Cooper watched them leave, then turned to me. A tall, wiry man with sun-darkened skin and sharp gray eyes. His face was cut with wrinkles, his hands covered in old scars. Military bearing showed in every movement.
"You Miller?" he asked, wiping his hands with a rag stained by oil and powder residue.
"Yes."
"You called yesterday about work. Said you had an interesting offer."
"That's right." I stepped out of the car and extended my hand. His handshake was firm, with the familiar shooter's callus on the index finger. "Thank you for agreeing to meet."
"Curiosity got the better of me," he said with a slight smirk. "It's not every day someone calls from New York with a job offer. Come inside. The heat won't let up until evening."
We went to the porch. Cooper brought a pitcher of ice water and two glasses, and we sat in wicker chairs. The Arizona sun hung high, the air trembling with heat.
"So you need a firearms instructor," he began, pouring water. "For a private security company in New York. Did I understand correctly?"
"Correct. But not just an instructor. I need a man who can create a new training system. A curriculum, standards, methods. Someone who can turn ordinary men into professionals, and professionals into the elite."
Cooper took a drink, narrowing his eyes.
"How many men do you have?"
"The staff is expanding actively. Right now, about forty. All veterans, most of them served in Vietnam. They know how to handle weapons, but by army standards. Prone shooting at targets three hundred yards away, volley fire over areas. Useful in war, useless on city streets."
"And you need urban tactics."
"Exactly. Fast shooting at close range. Work in confined spaces. Actions under stress, when adrenaline is off the charts and your hands are shaking. Shooting on the move, from cover, in the dark. Things the ordinary army doesn't teach."
Cooper nodded thoughtfully.
"Correct priorities. Most security companies limit themselves to basic qualification. Teach a man to hit a target at ten yards, give him a license, and that's it. Then they act surprised when their boys die in the first real mess."
"That's exactly why I'm here. I heard you teach people not just to shoot, but to think. To assess the situation, make decisions, keep their heads under fire. You're creating new methods and standards."
"Who told you that?" he asked, looking at me with interest.
"I have my methods. But in short, I found a Marine who said you were his instructor in sixty-two. He said you were the best shooter he had ever seen."
Cooper smirked.
"Most likely that bastard Tommy. Only he ever praised me that much. Is he all right?"
"Came back in one piece. Works for me."
"Glad to hear it. Many didn't come back."
Cooper fell silent for a moment, looking somewhere into the distance. Then he shook himself out of it.
"All right. You flew a long way, so let's get to business. What exactly are you offering?"
I took a folder from my briefcase and placed it on the small table between us.
"Chief firearms instructor for my company. You will be responsible for training all security personnel. You develop the programs, conduct training, establish qualification standards. Full freedom in methods and approaches. I don't interfere in professional matters."
"Salary?"
"Thirty-five thousand dollars a year."
Cooper choked on his water.
"How much?"
"Thirty-five thousand. Plus a separate budget for building out the range, purchasing ammunition, developing training materials. Plus housing in New York for you and your family if you decide to move. Plus performance bonuses."
He stayed silent, processing the information. Then he slowly set the glass on the table.
"Mr. Miller, I currently make eight thousand a year teaching local cops and hunters. Add some range work on the side, and it comes to ten thousand at most. You're offering three and a half times that. You're not from organized crime, are you?"
"If I were from organized crime, this conversation would sound different," I said, leaning back in the chair. "Mr. Cooper, I'm not buying a shooter. I'm buying a system. You will build a range from scratch, develop a training program, introduce standards that don't exist right now in any private security company, and maybe not even in more serious structures. You won't simply teach men to hit a target. You'll create a method by which they will teach the next ones. That is what the thirty-five thousand is for. Expertise. Years of experience. The fact that you'll move your family across the country for work no one else can do the way you can."
"You want to create professionals, and judging by the fact that you came personally, you need it urgently." He narrowed his eyes. "What is happening in your New York?"
I thought for a moment, choosing the words.
"My business has attracted the attention of people who don't like someone making money without them. Criminal groups are demanding a share, threatening us, sending their boys. So far, we're holding them off, but sooner or later this will lead to a serious collision. I need people ready for that."
Cooper nodded slowly.
"Before I agree, I want you to clarify one point."
"I'm listening."
"What will you use the men I train for? You say protection. But protection comes in different forms. One thing is fighting off an attack on a warehouse. Another is driving over to competitors and intimidating them. A third is killing someone on contract. I don't want to train murderers."
I held his gaze.
"Mr. Cooper, my company produces office supplies and safety products. Notepads, reflective patches, boring legal business. I don't engage in crime, I don't order murders, I don't wage war on competitors. But crime came to me. And I have to defend myself."
"Defense can become offense very quickly."
"It can. But it won't while I'm in charge. I've invested too much into this business to turn it into a gang. I need force for deterrence, not aggression. Besides, this is a licensed security company."
Cooper was silent for a while. Then he stood and walked along the porch.
"I had a principle in the Marines," he said, stopping by the railing and looking out at the desert. "Prepare people for the worst, but hope for the best. Teach them to kill, but explain when killing is justified. I trained hundreds of Marines. Some died in Vietnam protecting their comrades. Some came back and became cops, protecting civilians. Some slipped into crime and now rob banks. I cannot control what they do after the training. But I can control what I teach."
He turned back.
"If I agree, I will teach your men to shoot properly. Everything I know. But I will also teach them to think. When to shoot, and when not to. How to avoid shooting entirely, if possible. Because every shot has consequences. Police, courts, the families of the dead. Even when you are right, life will not be the same afterward."
"That is exactly the approach I want," I nodded. "I don't need psychopaths who solve every problem with a bullet. I need professionals with cold heads."
I had thought about this for a long time. And I had come to the conclusion that principles are the best foundation for a brotherhood. When people don't just follow orders, but understand that the cause is right, that we don't kill whoever someone points at, that we have specific reasons, that's when the spirit I need begins to appear. We do a small evil for the sake of a greater good, and everyone understands it. Soldiers are used to carrying out orders that make them sick and keeping silent about it. But when you show them what and why, trust appears. And if you add mutual support to that trust, real help to one another, you get something like a big family where everyone knows everyone. My goals become common goals.
Of course, this still needed to be thought through better. But at least those were the first outlines.
Cooper returned to the table and sat down.
"Good. Then let's discuss the details. Moving to New York is a serious decision. My wife grew up here. Her parents are here, her friends. My daughter attends the local school. We can't simply uproot ourselves and leave overnight."
"I understand. What arrangement would work for you?"
He thought about it.
"I need time. Say, a month to prepare. Sell the house or rent it out, place my daughter in a new school, move our things. And I need guarantees."
"What kind?"
"A contract for at least three years. Compensation in case of early termination. Medical insurance for the whole family. Payment for moving and settling in. And most importantly: if after a year I decide I cannot work with you for moral reasons, I have the right to terminate the contract without penalty."
I nodded.
"Acceptable. Three-year contract, thirty-five thousand a year with inflation adjustment. Compensation if the company terminates early: one year's salary. Premium medical insurance for you, your wife, and your daughter. Moving expenses up to five thousand dollars. And a clause allowing termination on moral grounds if you believe the company is doing something wrong."
Cooper extended his hand.
"Deal."
We shook hands. The deal was done.
"Excellent. In the meantime, I'll prepare the range, purchase equipment, assemble the first group. My specialist will send you a list of what he considers necessary, and you can adjust it to your methods."
"Agreed."
We spent another hour discussing details. Which weapons to use for training, how much ammunition to buy, what the range should look like, which exercises to include in the program. Cooper spoke with real enthusiasm, his eyes lit up. It was clear the subject genuinely captured him. We settled it this way: I would purchase the equipment and allocate the land, and he would come and build everything around his own methods.
When I left, he stood on the porch and watched me go. Ray was waiting by the car. He always stayed nearby, just in case. He had only one arm, but that didn't stop him from shooting.
"Did it work, boss?"
"How could it not?"
The first key specialist was found.
***
The second was Rex Applegate.
I also knew about him from my previous life, though less than I knew about Cooper. A legend of hand-to-hand combat from the Second World War, a veteran of the OSS, the predecessor of the CIA, a man who trained saboteurs and agents to kill with their bare hands. Author of Kill or Get Killed, a book that would become a bible for special forces soldiers around the world. But that, too, would be later. Right now, in 1976, he was sixty years old and working as a consultant for the Oregon police department, teaching cops self-defense and arrest techniques.
Finding him turned out to be easier than finding Cooper. Applegate was a more public figure; his books were sold in specialized stores, and his articles appeared in police journals. A couple of calls, and I had his work phone number.
I called him on Thursday afternoon, after returning from Arizona. He picked up on the third ring.
"Applegate speaking." His voice was deep, with a smoker's faint rasp.
"Mr. Applegate, my name is David Miller. I own a manufacturing company in New York. I would like to discuss possible cooperation with you."
"What kind of cooperation?"
"I need a hand-to-hand combat instructor for my security service. I've heard you are the best in the business."
A short pause.
"Who told you that?"
"I read your book. Impressive work. I also made inquiries through acquaintances in the police. Everyone says the same thing: if you want to teach men how to actually fight, not dance in pajamas, go to Applegate."
He chuckled on the other end.
"Flattery is nice, but let's get to the point. What exactly do you need?"
"A chance to meet and discuss the details. I'm ready to fly to Oregon at any time convenient for you."
"You're serious."
"Absolutely."
Another pause. I could hear him drawing on a cigarette.
"All right. Saturday, ten in the morning. Come to the Portland Police Department, ask for me at reception. But I'm warning you now: if this is another offer to guard someone's warehouse for pennies, you'll be wasting your time."
"This is an offer to create a training program from scratch for a professional security structure. With appropriate funding."
"Then come. We'll see."
On Saturday, I flew to Portland on an early flight. The city greeted me with rain and a gray sky, typical weather for the Northwest. Rental car, half an hour to the center, a police department in an old brick building.
At reception sat an elderly woman with her hair pulled into a tight bun. I gave my name and said I had a meeting with Mr. Applegate. She nodded, picked up the phone, called somewhere.
"Go down to the basement. Training room at the end of the corridor," she said, hanging up.
I went down a narrow staircase. The corridor was long and poorly lit, smelling of damp and old sweat. At the end stood a double door, and from behind it came the sound of impacts and someone's heavy breathing.
I pushed the door open and went inside.
The room was spacious, but shabby. Cracked mats on the floor, a heavy bag in the corner, wooden dummies for practicing strikes. By the far wall stood a man demonstrating something to two young police officers. Tall, broad-shouldered despite his age. Short gray hair, a face cut with wrinkles. He moved economically, every motion precise.
He noticed me, nodded to the officers, and came over. His handshake was firm, his palm calloused.
"Applegate. You Miller?"
"Yes. Thank you for agreeing to meet."
"Curiosity." He shrugged. "It's not every day New York calls. Wait fifteen minutes. I'll finish with these boys."
I sat on a bench by the wall and watched.
Applegate taught the cops arrest techniques. Not pretty throws from karate movies, but rough, effective methods. How to twist an arm behind the back and pin a man face-first to a wall. How to rip a knife out of an attacker's hand. How to knock someone out with a strike to the jaw if the situation had gone too far. He explained calmly, without extra words, demonstrated on one of the cops, then made both of them drill the technique on each other.
Fifteen minutes later, the session ended. The cops thanked the instructor and left, rubbing bruises. Applegate took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lit one, and looked at me.
"Well then, Mr. Miller from New York. Tell me what you need."
I stood and stepped closer.
"I need a man who will train my security personnel in hand-to-hand combat. Not sport, but combat. Techniques that work on the street, in a real fight, when the opponent doesn't follow rules."
"Most guards don't know how to fight at all," Applegate said, exhaling smoke. "They wave a club around and hope their size scares off a troublemaker. Sometimes I think I could do more damage with my dick than they can with those sticks."
"That's exactly why I'm here. My men are all veterans, they fought in Vietnam. But army hand-to-hand is more about raising fighting spirit than actual application. They need to be retrained into something more effective."
Applegate nodded.
"True. The army teaches bayonet work and some basic boxing. Useless in a city, where an opponent might be armed with anything. How many men?"
"Forty right now, but the number is growing and we plan to reach about a hundred."
He whistled.
"Serious plans. What kind of company, if it's not a secret?"
"Office supplies and safety products. Legal business. But it attracted criminal attention, and now we have to defend ourselves."
"Gangsters demanding tribute?"
"They are."
Applegate crushed his cigarette under the sole of his boot and tossed the butt into a trash can.
"Understood. And you decided the best defense is well-trained men capable of fighting back."
"Exactly."
He walked around the room, hands behind his back, thinking.
"Mr. Miller, I have been training people to kill with their bare hands since forty-two. OSS saboteurs dropped behind enemy lines. Then cops working the streets. I have seen enough violence to understand one thing: hand-to-hand combat is the last line of defense. When everything else has failed. Do you understand?"
"I do."
"Good. Because many people romanticize this subject. They think they'll learn to fight and become untouchable. Nonsense. Any fight is a risk. Even if you are the best fighter in the world, your opponent can break your jaw with a bottle or stick a knife in your kidney. So the first rule is: avoid the fight if possible."
"Agreed. But if it can't be avoided?"
"Then hit first, hit hard, and finish fast. No fair duels, no warnings. An opponent is dangerous as long as he is on his feet, so put him down. Quickly and efficiently."
He walked to a dummy and showed a sequence of strikes. Knee to the groin, elbow to the jaw, sweep, finishing kick to the head of a man on the ground.
"This is what a real street fight looks like. Dirty, brutal, no rules. Are your men ready for that?"
"They fought in Vietnam. They've seen worse."
"Seeing and doing it with your own hands are different things. In war, you shoot the enemy from a distance. In hand-to-hand, you feel his bones break. You hear him scream. Not everyone can handle that."
"That is why I need a professional instructor. One who won't just teach techniques, but prepare them psychologically."
Applegate nodded slowly.
"What are you offering?"
"Chief hand-to-hand combat instructor. Forty thousand dollars a year. Plus a budget for equipping the gym, buying training gear, and everything else down the list. You develop the program, conduct training, establish standards, and make sure those standards are met."
"Forty thousand," he repeated thoughtfully. "Didn't think anyone would finally offer real money. But…"
Applegate lit another cigarette.
"I'm sixty years old, Mr. Miller. Too old to move across the country and start a new career."
"You're not old. I saw how you move. Not every young man can do that."
"Flattering. But the fact remains: I'll be retiring soon. Why should I trade a stable job for an adventure?"
I paused, choosing my words.
"Mr. Applegate, allow me to ask a question. Are you satisfied with what you're doing now?"
He narrowed his eyes.
"What do you mean?"
"You trained saboteurs during the war. The elite, the best of the best. Then you became a police consultant, teaching ordinary cops basic techniques. Isn't it boring? Don't you feel your potential is being used at twenty percent?"
A long pause. Applegate looked at me, then turned away.
"Go on."
"I am offering you a return to what you did best. Training professionals, not beginners. Creating a training program that can become the industry standard. Passing your knowledge to the next generation so it doesn't die with you. Isn't that a worthy goal for the final years of a career?"
Applegate put out the cigarette and walked around the room.
"You know how to persuade," he said at last. "But there are problems. First: I cannot simply drop the department. They value me here. I work with good people. I need time to transfer responsibilities and find a replacement."
"How much time?"
"Two months minimum."
"Acceptable."
"Second problem: I don't want to move permanently. Portland is my city. My home is here, friends, familiar life. If I agree, it will be on a contract basis. Say, nine months in New York, three months at home."
I thought about it. The condition was reasonable.
"Agreed. Nine months of active work, three months of leave. During that time, your assistants will maintain the program, and you can rest or work remotely."
"Assistants?" He raised an eyebrow.
"Of course. You won't handle a hundred men alone. We'll need assistant instructors whom you train in your methods."
Applegate nodded.
"Reasonable. Third condition: I want to publish my manuals at the company's expense. An updated version of Kill or Get Killed, plus several training guides. The company finances publication and distribution, the copyrights remain mine."
"We have the connections to make the book circulate widely. I propose another option: we acquire the publication rights and take over distribution. You receive a lump-sum payment plus a percentage of sales. Better for both sides."
He smirked.
"Talk to a businessman, and he'll sell you your own underwear." He paused, rubbing his chin. "All right. But the book must get real reach. I want to leave something behind. You hit the mark there."
We shook hands.
"And one last condition," he added. "My students actually use what I teach them, not some Eastern nonsense."
I smirked.
"What do you mean?"
"Lately, it's fashionable to drag karate men and kung fu masters into security work. They jump prettily, break boards with their feet, impress the inexperienced. Make funny noises too. But in a real fight, they're useless, because they were taught sport, not combat. If you hire people like that, I leave immediately."
"We won't. I need efficiency, not beauty. Your methods will be the main and only foundation of the hand-to-hand program."
"Good."
***
The third had to be someone young, energetic, with real combat experience. Someone capable not just of teaching from manuals, but of showing by personal example. A man who, if necessary, could lead a group in a real operation instead of sitting safely in the rear.
Here it wasn't my memories that helped, but the boys' connections. Through Jacob, we found Eric Haney. I looked at his service record and whistled to myself: Vietnam, Army Special Forces, several operations under classification. The man clearly knew his business. Pulling someone like him away would not be easy. He was currently going through selection for Delta Force, the new counterterrorist unit that was only being formed. Leaving that voluntarily would be strange.
But it turned out easier than I thought. Haney knew many of our guys personally. Not casually, but properly, through joint operations and shared foxholes. He knew Jacob especially well. So I sent Jacob to talk.
Jacob returned two days later.
"He agreed," he said shortly.
"What convinced him?"
"Good money. Also said he was tired of waiting for the government to decide what Delta Force was actually supposed to be. Bureaucracy, approvals, politics. Here there's a concrete job and people he knows. Besides, it's civilian life, more or less."
Haney arrived a week later. I thought I had seen men with heavy eyes before. Marcus, Jacob, some of the older veterans. But Haney outdid them all. He could look at you in a way that made it seem you were already dead, you simply didn't know it yet. Not anger, not threat. Just the absolute calm of a man who had no need to prove anything.
We brought him up to speed quickly. When we reached the part about crime, he gave a short hmph. Not surprised, more like a man hearing a familiar story before getting down to work. He looked at the boys, the range, the training plans Cooper and Applegate had already begun sketching. Then he sat at the table and started adding his own notes.
As for the other instructors, I'll keep it short. Jacob went through his lists, the others reached out to those they remembered from service. People began arriving one after another: former sergeants, tactical instructors, explosives specialists, snipers. Each had Vietnam behind him and a service record he didn't need to be ashamed of.
When they all gathered for the first time, I simply sat in the corner and watched. Cooper, Applegate, Haney, and eight more men around a table buried in papers. They argued, drew diagrams, crossed things out, rewrote them. After an hour, I understood that maybe I had overdone it a little. Or maybe not a little.
They planned the training program down to details that would never have occurred to me. Firearms training, hand-to-hand combat, tactics, that much was obvious. But then it became more interesting: qualification levels with clear standards, a system of rewards and punishments, psychological stability under load, team operation after loss of communication, actions under limited visibility, which specializations the men would have, and who would teach what. I listened, and it slowly dawned on me: I could forget about large numbers. The lower standard they were setting sounded like requirements for some kind of monsters. This was not a security company being formed. This was special operations forces.
Then someone raised the question of nutrition.
I thought it would be a short conversation.
I was wrong.
The men planned the diet as if preparing athletes for the Olympics: proteins, carbohydrates, meal timing before and after training. They did not forget the schedule either. For ordinary guards: twelve hours of work, twelve hours of rest, every second day fully off.
This whole thing was going to cost a lot of money.
But at the end of it, we were supposed to get soldiers who were one step away from super-soldiers. At least, that was how it looked to me.