Mapmakers Online Story
Gun Shop: Tacoma Arms Room
Tacoma, Washington · Thursday, May 19, 2039
At 8:47, Malcolm Briggs unlocked the public entrance to Tacoma Arms Room and left the sign in the window turned to CLOSED.
Milwaukee Way was already moving. Trucks rolled between industrial lots toward the port. Railcars sat beyond the warehouses. Somewhere farther east, steel struck steel twice in a slow, heavy rhythm.
Malcolm crossed the showroom and set his coffee beside the sales terminal.
The front of the building looked like a serious gun store because that was what customers needed it to be. Glass cases held pistols. Rifles stood vertically behind steel retainers. Shelving carried optics, magazines, cleaning equipment, hearing protection and ammunition.
The rear half explained why Malcolm had bought the place.
The service counter opened into the gunsmithing room. Beyond that were administrative offices, secure storage, shipping and receiving, and the loading area facing the fenced yard. Two private firing lanes occupied a reinforced enclosure along one wall. They existed for function tests, demonstrations, zero confirmation and limited qualification work connected to the shop.
His white shirt sleeves were buttoned at the wrists. A dark tie sat straight against his collar. His pistol rode openly on his right hip.
Beside it, in a black leather holder, was a blue triangular badge.
FIREARMS LICENSE
UNITED STATES
The badge identified him as a licensed armed civilian and firearms professional under the federal system.
Tessa Nguyen was already in receiving.
“Morning.”
“Morning. Freight says ten-thirty.”
“The CZ shipment?”
“Yes.”
Malcolm nodded and continued toward the range enclosure.
Nolan Morrow came through the door carrying a clipboard.
“Lane two ventilation sensor threw an alarm during startup.”
“What did you find?”
“Dust on the sensor head. Cleaned it, ran the test twice, normal both times.”
Malcolm read the entry, checked the test results and initialed the line.
“Put the cleaning interval on the maintenance calendar.”
“Already did.”
Malcolm handed back the clipboard.
At 9:00, Tessa turned the sign to OPEN.
The first customer who wanted a gun arrived fourteen minutes later.
He spent several minutes looking over the shotgun rack before asking to handle a Mossberg 590.
Malcolm released one from the rack, opened the action, checked the chamber and placed it on the counter with the muzzle oriented toward the built-in backstop at the end of the sales station.
The customer was somewhere around forty.
“This is the one.”
“The 590?”
“Yeah.”
Malcolm checked the tag.
“You picked the right version if you want the full-length magazine tube.”
“That was the idea.”
Malcolm turned the shotgun slightly so the customer could inspect the controls and furniture.
The man shouldered it once, worked the action, then set it back down.
“I’ll take it.”
Malcolm verified the chamber again and entered the serial number into the transaction terminal.
“Identification, please.”
The man presented it.
Malcolm entered the information and rotated the customer terminal toward him.
The federal transfer sequence opened.
The Bureau of Firearms and Explosives, BFE, handled the eligibility decision through the national licensing system. Malcolm saw the identity information the customer supplied, the firearm information he entered and the eventual transfer status.
The man worked through the questions carefully.
He signed the certification.
Malcolm submitted the transfer.
The response returned within seconds.
DENIED
REFERENCE: 39-0519-0917-8842
Malcolm read the screen and turned it toward the customer.
“The transfer came back denied.”
The man stared at the word.
“For what?”
“BFE only gives me the status and reference number. You can use that number to pull the reason directly from them.”
The man looked again at the screen.
“It has to be the domestic.”
Malcolm waited.
“Twelve years ago,” the customer said. “Domestic-violence conviction. I thought it had been long enough.”
Malcolm opened the drawer beneath the register and took out a folded pamphlet.
FIREARMS ELIGIBILITY RESTORATION
He placed it on the counter.
“Domestic-violence convictions require restoration. Time by itself doesn’t clear the disability.”
The customer picked up the pamphlet.
“What’s involved?”
“The process is in there. BFE handles the petition and determination.”
He unfolded the first panel and skimmed it.
Malcolm lifted the Mossberg from the counter.
“If you want something for recreational shooting while you sort that out, I can show you a qualifying black-powder muzzleloader.”
The man glanced toward the muzzleloader section.
“No. I wanted the shotgun.”
Malcolm returned the Mossberg to the rack.
The customer folded the pamphlet and slipped it into his jacket pocket before leaving.
At 9:58, a father came through the door with a boy who went directly to the rifle wall.
“Don’t touch anything yet,” the father said.
“I know.”
The boy drifted straight toward a Springfield Armory SAINT.
His father caught the direction of his attention.
“Not that one.”
“Why not?”
“Because we came for a target rifle.”
He pointed farther down the rack.
“Look at the CZ.”
The boy followed the gesture to a CZ 457 Varmint MTR in .22 Long Rifle.
“That one?”
“That one.”
Malcolm came around the counter.
The father looked toward him.
“We’re looking for a target rifle.”
Malcolm unlocked the CZ, opened the bolt and checked the chamber.
He handed it to the father first.
The father accepted it with the muzzle downrange toward the designated safe wall, checked the open action himself, then passed it to his son.
The boy shouldered it.
“That’s heavy.”
“Target barrel,” Malcolm said. “The extra weight helps settle the rifle.”
The boy looked along the empty receiver.
“No scope?”
“You choose that separately.”
“What would you put on it?”
Malcolm looked at the father.
The father nodded.
“For paper at fifty and a hundred yards, I’d spend money on clear glass before chasing magnification.”
The boy lowered the rifle.
“Can I work the bolt?”
“Keep it pointed there.”
The bolt lifted, came back, then slid forward again.
The boy worked it a second time, slower.
His father took the rifle back.
“This is the one.”
Malcolm motioned toward the counter.
The father completed the purchaser side of the transaction. The boy stood beside him but kept his hands away from the terminal.
The federal response came back:
APPROVED
Malcolm continued into the shop’s minor-use custody acknowledgement.
He turned the terminal enough for both of them to see.
“You’re the legal purchaser and custodian,” Malcolm told the father. “He can handle and shoot the rifle under your direct supervision. At home, you maintain custody and prevent independent access.”
“It goes in my safe.”
“Then keep it there when you aren’t supervising him.”
The final acknowledgement appeared in bold.
FAILURE TO MAINTAIN ABSOLUTE CUSTODY MAY RESULT IN CRIMINAL CHARGES IF THE FIREARM IS USED UNLAWFULLY.
The father read the warning and signed beneath it.
The boy looked at the screen.
“That sounds serious.”
Malcolm began closing the rifle case.
“It is.”
His father took the case by the handle.
The boy carried the scope catalogue Tessa had given him.
At 10:41, a freight truck backed through the gate.
Tessa met the driver at receiving while Malcolm verified the first case against the manifest. By 11:03, the incoming CZ rifles were entered into inventory and locked in the rear cage.
Malcolm had barely returned to the showroom when another customer set a sixteen-inch AR-pattern 5.56-millimeter semiautomatic carbine on the sales mat.
“I want this one.”
Malcolm checked the chamber, entered the serial number and asked for identification.
The customer moved through the eligibility sequence with the familiarity of someone who had bought firearms before.
The response returned:
DENIED
Malcolm turned the screen.
“Transfer came back denied.”
The customer frowned.
“That can’t be right.”
Malcolm pointed to the reference number.
“You can pull the reason through BFE using that.”
The man stared at the screen for another second.
“I suspended the prescription.”
Malcolm looked at him.
“The DRUG Act?”
“Four months ago.”
The Drug Risk and Undercutting Gangs Act of 2037 was usually shortened to the DRUG Act.
“Stopping the prescription doesn’t give you your gun rights back,” Malcolm said. “You still have to finish the year of clean tests.”
The man frowned.
“A year from when I stopped?”
“From your first clean test after you suspended.”
“How do you know that?”
“I know the disqualification statuses because I sell guns. My sister’s ex went through the restoration part.”
The man looked back at the denial.
“So Suspended still counts?”
“Until you finish the year.”
“Then I need to check where I am in it.”
“Exactly.”
The customer took out his phone and photographed the BFE reference number.
Malcolm returned the carbine to the wall rack while the customer opened his DRUG Act participant portal on his phone.
By 11:43, the showroom had emptied enough for Malcolm to eat half a sandwich at his desk.
Tessa stopped in the doorway.
“Soundreach confirmed 2:15.”
“Lauren Beckett?”
“And a project engineer.”
“Put them in the conference room when they arrive.”
“Nolan cleared his afternoon.”
Malcolm nodded and went back to his sandwich.
At 12:17, the entrance bell sounded.
The man who came through the door wore dark trousers, a pale blue button-down shirt and a navy turban. His beard was full and unshorn.
A black pistol rode openly on his belt.
Beside it sat a red triangular badge.
FIREARMS LICENCE
PERMIS D’ARMES À FEU
CANADA
He stopped at the service counter.
“You do slide cuts?”
“Yeah. What are you putting on it?”
“I want a red dot, but I’m not sure which one.”
Malcolm opened the optics case.
“Open emitter or enclosed?”
The man looked over the row.
“Enclosed.”
Malcolm took out a Holosun 509T and set it on the counter.
“Then I’d go with this.”
The man picked up the 509T and looked through the window.
“Why this one?”
“Titanium housing, sealed emitter, good battery life. You’re carrying every day, so I’d rather not leave the emitter exposed to rain, dust and whatever else gets into the gun.”
He looked through it again.
“Makes sense.”
Malcolm nodded toward the Glock on his belt.
“Generation Eight?”
“Yeah.”
“I can cut your slide, but I’ve already got a Gen Eight slide in back cut for the 509T. You keep your original untouched, and I can have the new one fitted and zeroed today.”
“How much more?”
Malcolm told him.
The man considered it for a moment.
“Do that.”
Malcolm turned the service terminal toward him.
“Name?”
“Rajiv Sandhu.”
Malcolm entered it.
Rajiv started filling out the work order, then stopped.
“You guys do laser engraving too?”
Malcolm glanced toward the gunsmithing room.
“Yeah.”
Rajiv took out his phone.
“Could you put this on the new slide?”
He turned the screen around. A simple line drawing of a kirpan filled it.
Nolan came closer.
“How large?”
Rajiv held his thumb and forefinger a few centimeters apart.
“Small. Left side.”
Nolan studied the image.
“I can do that.”
Malcolm added the Holosun, replacement slide and engraving to the work order.
“What zero?”
“Twenty-five yards.”
Malcolm entered it.
“Before we take the pistol, clearing station.”
Rajiv went to the barrel mounted along the side wall.
He drew the Glock there.
Magazine out.
Slide to the rear.
The chambered cartridge came free into his hand.
He locked the action open, checked the chamber and brought the pistol to the service counter with the slide held back.
Malcolm received it, checked the chamber and magazine well, then passed it to Nolan.
The service ticket went with it.
Malcolm checked Rajiv’s Canadian credential through the recognition system. It was current, and his reciprocal carry authority in the United States remained valid for the visit.
“Do you need a loaner while we have yours?”
Rajiv looked at him.
“You offer that?”
“For qualified customers.”
Malcolm went to the secure cabinet and returned with another Glock 17 Generation Eight.
Same frame size. Same controls. Same holster compatibility.
He logged the loaner’s serial number to Rajiv’s work order, entered the time and handed the pistol across with the slide locked open.
Rajiv took it to the clearing station.
He inserted a loaded magazine, chambered a round and holstered the pistol.
The red badge remained visible beside it.
“I’ll be back well before six.”
Malcolm closed the temporary-custody screen.
“We close at six.”
“I heard you the first time.”
Rajiv picked up his bag and left for the port.
At 1:08, Nolan had Rajiv’s pistol disassembled on a padded bench.
The original slide rested beside the new one.
Malcolm stopped long enough to look at the replacement.
The Holosun 509T sat low over the slide.
Behind the ejection port, the laser had cut Rajiv’s kirpan into the left flat in thin, restrained lines.
“Scale looks right.”
Nolan turned the slide under the bench light.
“That’s what he sent.”
“Finish the edges?”
“Already cleaned.”
Malcolm went back to the front.
A dull, contained report reached the showroom from one of the test lanes at 1:31.
Several minutes later came another.
Nolan finished Rajiv’s function checks, then confirmed the optic at twenty-five yards.
At 2:16, Lauren Beckett entered carrying a tablet case.
A younger man followed with a rolled structural print tucked under one arm.
“Malcolm Briggs?”
“Lauren.”
They shook hands.
“This is Colin Weller, project engineer.”
Malcolm introduced himself and led them through the service area to the conference room.
Lauren connected her tablet to the wall display.
“The owner sent us a more specific capability list.”
“Let’s hear it.”
Lauren opened the first page.
“He wants a deck gun with real naval-gun character. His original request was a three-inch or five-inch naval gun.”
Malcolm nodded.
“Two manually operated fifties at the stern. A third fifty in an elevated position with full three-sixty coverage. Secure stowage for all three.”
She scrolled.
“Substantial ammunition capacity for the main gun. Most of the shooting will be recreational offshore, but he wants the main gun available as a defensive weapon in an emergency.”
Malcolm looked over the list.
“I can give him the capabilities. The actual three-inch or five-inch naval gun is the problem.”
Colin leaned forward.
“Availability?”
“Nobody I know is selling them. Not anything I’d be willing to build this yacht around.”
Lauren looked at him.
“So what are you proposing instead?”
Malcolm opened his own file.
An M101A1 105-millimeter howitzer appeared on the screen.
“This.”
Lauren studied the image.
“M101.”
“I’ve got a supplier with surplus guns. I can get ammunition for them, and Commencement Bay Heavy Fabrication is local and knows how to build heavy marine hardware. I trust them to convert the weapon to a permanent deck mount.”
Colin looked between the field carriage and the yacht drawing.
“That gets rid of the wheels and trails.”
“Wheels, split trails, towing hardware. The barrel, breech, recoil system, cradle and everything the gun actually needs to function stay.”
Lauren enlarged the M101 drawing.
“And you think that gives him the character he wants?”
“Once it’s sitting permanently on the foredeck instead of behind a truck, yes. He’ll have a real 105-millimeter artillery piece, not a decorative imitation of a naval gun.”
Lauren moved to the stern requirement.
“Two manually operated fifties.”
“M2 Browning .50-caliber machine guns on pintle mounts. Port and starboard aft.”
“Permanent?”
“The mounts are. The guns aren’t. When he isn’t using them, the M2s go into the ship’s armory.”
She marked both positions.
“The third fifty needs full coverage.”
Malcolm brought up the mast arrangement.
“Put the remote station on a telescoping support beside the main mast.”
Colin rotated the model.
“Above the navigation radar?”
“Only when deployed. Retracted, keep it below the primary radar. When he raises it, the weapon station needs to clear the radar and the rest of the superstructure so he gets the full three-sixty.”
Lauren extended the mast in the model.
The remote weapon station rose above the radar.
“Like that?”
Malcolm studied the sight lines.
“That gets you there.”
“And the weapon itself?”
“Same rule as the stern guns. M2 comes off and goes into the armory when they’re done with it. The station and mast stay installed.”
Lauren saved the configuration.
“Main gun storage?”
“The M101 stays on the foredeck.”
Colin looked up.
“That counts as secure storage?”
“If BFE approves the completed installation.”
Malcolm zoomed into the proposed pedestal.
“Through-bolt it with rounded heads topside so there’s nothing useful to put a tool on. The removable nuts stay below deck inside a secured compartment. Then weld the mount into the deck structure too.”
Lauren traced the interface.
“So removing it means getting inside the secured space and doing structural work.”
“Exactly.”
“Surveillance?”
“Cameras covering the foredeck, accessible remotely through Starlink. Two independent theft trackers on the gun installation too.”
Colin made a note.
“You really want two trackers on something welded to a yacht?”
“The owner is putting a 105 on his foredeck. Redundancy is cheap compared with the rest of this project.”
Lauren moved to the ammunition requirement.
“He said substantial capacity. What should we design around?”
“Seventy complete rounds.”
Colin looked over.
“Breakdown?”
“Twenty high-explosive M1 rounds. Fifty training rounds with inert projectiles.”
Lauren typed the numbers in.
“The fifty are fully inert?”
“No. Inert projectiles. All seventy still have live propellant.”
She changed the label on the drawing.
INERT PROJECTILE / LIVE PROPELLANT
“The fifty are what he’ll burn through offshore,” Malcolm said. “The twenty HE rounds give him the defensive capability he asked for.”
Lauren opened the proposed magazine compartment.
“How do you want this protected?”
“Use the M1 Abrams ammunition compartment as the reference idea.”
Colin looked toward him.
“Bustle rack?”
“Conceptually. Protected ammunition, isolated from occupied spaces, with a deliberate weak direction for a catastrophic cook-off.”
“Blowout panel.”
“That kind of solution. Your explosives engineer decides the actual construction, armor, fire resistance and vent path.”
Lauren rotated the hull section.
“We can vent outward and upward from this compartment.”
“Model it against everything around it. Crew spaces, fuel, machinery, communications, escape routes. I’m giving you the requirement. You decide how the yacht safely satisfies it.”
Lauren nodded and moved back to the M101.
“Now tell us what the ship has to survive when he fires it.”
Malcolm opened the technical package.
“Complete field system is 4,978 pounds. That includes the carriage, wheels, trails and towing hardware, so don’t use that as the final installed mass.”
Colin entered the number.
“We weigh the actual retained assembly after Commencement Bay finishes the conversion.”
“Correct.”
Lauren opened the recoil page.
“Published weapon impulse?”
“Two thousand sixteen pound-force seconds.”
“Peak load?”
“That number is impulse, not your deck design load. You’ll get the rest of the recoil package, recoil travel and actual mount geometry before you freeze the structure.”
Lauren smiled slightly.
“Thank you for saying that before somebody multiplied the wrong number by the wrong thing.”
Malcolm continued.
“Commencement Bay owns the weapon-side pedestal and interface. Soundreach owns the hull structure, foundation, load paths, stability and trim. I supply the gun, the actual weapon data and the operating envelopes.”
Colin brought up the proposed foredeck foundation.
“Traverse?”
“Forty-six degrees total. Twenty-three either side of centerline.”
“Hard stops?”
“Mechanical.”
Lauren drew the arc.
It remained forward of the superstructure.
“Elevation?”
“Keep the usable range of the original gun where your clearances allow it. I care more about making sure the breech, loading crew and recoil system never get into the yacht.”
Malcolm brought up the breech-clearance envelope.
“Keep this space open through the full loading cycle and elevation range. Crew positions, cartridge handling, maintenance access and removal access for the recoil group all have to fit.”
Lauren moved a deck locker aft on the model.
“That can move.”
“Move it now instead of cutting it out later.”
Colin enlarged the structural interface.
“Commencement Bay gets this once we finish our preliminary foundation model?”
“Send it to both of us. I don’t want three companies working from three revisions.”
Lauren changed pages.
“Training.”
“What about it?” Malcolm asked.
“The owner wants to operate everything himself.”
“Then he qualifies on the systems.”
“Who handles that?”
“I do.”
Lauren looked at him.
Malcolm had begun his Army career in military occupational specialty 91F, Small Arms and Towed Artillery Repairer, before moving through armament-maintenance leadership and eventually retiring as a master sergeant under 91Z, Senior Maintenance Supervisor. His military records documented training and qualification on both the M2 and the M101.
“BFE accepted my Army records and training certificates when they certified me as an instructor on both systems. I also hold the applicable explosive-projectile ammunition instructor certification.”
“So you train him on the M2s, the howitzer and the explosive ammunition.”
“And I sign the qualifications when he meets the standards.”
“When do you want to do it?”
“After the installations are complete and the approved firing location is scheduled. There’s no point training him around a mount that isn’t his.”
Lauren switched the display to the updated exterior model.
The original naval-gun placeholder was gone. The M101 now sat low and solid on the foredeck, its road carriage stripped away and its barrel, breech and recoil system retained over the permanent marine mount. Two stern pintles occupied the aft corners. Beside the main mast, the retractable remote station sat below the primary radar in its normal position.
The yacht still looked like an expedition vessel. It simply looked like one whose owner had taken the word expedition very seriously.
Lauren studied the rendering for another moment.
“Three M2s and a 105-millimeter range toy will definitely take him back to his Navy days.”
Malcolm looked at the screen.
“That’s what he asked for.”
At 4:03, Lauren disconnected her tablet.
Colin rolled the structural print tighter under his arm.
Lauren took the Commencement Bay contact package with her.
“We’ll send the preliminary foundation model to both of you.”
“I’ll get the actual M101 selected and measured.”
“Then we make the two halves meet.”
“That’s the idea.”
They left through the showroom.
Malcolm returned to the gunsmithing room.
Rajiv’s Glock sat in a service tray with the slide locked to the rear.
A paper target from the twenty-five-yard lane lay beside it.
Nolan had centered the optic cleanly.
The new slide carried the small kirpan engraving on the left side.
The original slide had been wrapped and placed inside the cardboard box that had contained the replacement.
Beside it sat the optic’s original box. The instruction manual, adjustment tools and small supplied accessories were inside.
Nolan handed Malcolm the work order.
“Function check complete. Live-fire confirmation complete. Twenty-five-yard zero.”
Malcolm read the entries.
“Original parts?”
“In the slide box.”
“Optic tools?”
“In the optic box.”
Malcolm signed the completed shop portion and returned the sheet.
At 5:12, Tessa began reconciling the front register.
Nolan cleaned his bench and put away the engraving fixture.
At 5:29, Malcolm checked Rajiv’s service ticket.
The pistol was complete.
The loaner remained signed out.
At 5:48, Tessa shut off one row of display lights.
“Want me to send the pickup reminder?”
“He knows we close at six.”
At 5:53, Nolan came through the front carrying his jacket.
“See you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.”
The door closed behind him.
Tessa finished the register count.
At 5:56, Malcolm looked through the front windows toward Milwaukee Way.
Headlights turned into the lot.
A dark sport-utility vehicle came through the gate and pulled toward the entrance.
Rajiv stepped out with the same shoulder bag over one arm.
The front door opened at 5:58.
“Sorry.”
Malcolm looked at the clock.
“Two minutes.”
“The port meeting was supposed to end at four.”
Rajiv walked directly to the clearing station.
He drew the shop Glock over the barrel.
Magazine out.
Slide to the rear.
The chambered cartridge came free.
He locked the action open and carried the pistol to the counter.
Malcolm checked the chamber and magazine well.
Tessa opened the temporary-custody record.
Malcolm read the serial number aloud.
She matched it and completed the return.
LOANER RETURNED: 17:59
Malcolm brought out Rajiv’s pistol with the action open.
The new slide and optic caught the overhead light.
Rajiv took it in both hands and looked first through the optic, then along the left side of the slide.
He stopped at the engraving.
“That came out exactly the way I wanted.”
“Nolan did the laser work.”
Rajiv tilted the pistol slightly.
The kirpan sat behind the ejection port as a narrow line drawing, visible without dominating the slide.
“Tell him I said thank you.”
Malcolm placed the first cardboard box on the counter.
“Your original slide.”
Rajiv opened it.
The factory slide sat protected inside the packaging that had arrived with the replacement.
He closed the box and put it into his bag.
Malcolm handed him the second.
“Optic box. Manual, adjustment tools and the included hardware.”
Rajiv opened that one too, checked the contents and packed it beside the slide.
“Zero?”
“Twenty-five yards.”
Malcolm placed the target on the counter.
Rajiv looked at the group and folded the target once before adding it to his bag.
He carried the serviced Glock to the clearing station.
Magazine inserted.
Slide forward.
He chambered a round over the barrel, holstered the pistol and adjusted his shirt behind the red Canadian badge.
The pistol sat in the same holster that had carried Tacoma Arms Room’s loaner all afternoon.
Rajiv picked up his shoulder bag.
“Thanks for waiting.”
“You made it.”
He looked toward the wall clock.
6:01.
Rajiv smiled.
“Mostly.”
Tessa turned the front sign to CLOSED.
Rajiv stepped outside and crossed the parking lot toward his vehicle.
Malcolm locked the entrance behind him.