Chapter 7 - THE IMPACT OF IGNORANCE
CRACK-BOOM!
The Mk 22 discharged with a violent, concussive report that rattled the steel roof beams and pushed a cloud of blue-gray smoke out into the desert sunlight. The heavy recoil pushed Candidate Miller back an inch into his shooting mat.
Through his spotting scope, Mercer leaned in eagerly, his eyes wide behind his aviator glasses. "Impact! Center mass!" Mercer shouted instantly, expecting the satisfying, metallic PING of lead hitting armor plate five hundred yards away.
Silence.
No metallic ping echoed back across the desert draw.
Instead, a plume of pale-yellow dust erupted off the dirt berm twelve feet to the right of target Alpha, spraying rocks and dry scrub into the air.
The round had missed the three-foot steel torso target entirely.
"Miss!" Ryan Cole announced flatly, pulling his eye back from his optic. "Twelve feet right. Low and wide."
Mercer’s mouth hung open slightly. "What? That's impossible! The shooter pulled the trigger! Miller, did you flinch? Did you slap the shoe?"
Miller looked up from his stock, his face pale and embarrassed. "No, sir! I squeezed clean! The reticle was locked on the high-chest hold!"
"You held two MILs left like I told you?" Mercer demanded, his voice turning shrill.
"Yes, sir! Exactly two MILs!"
Lena stood five feet away, her hands resting calmly behind her back. She didn't smirk. She didn't gloat. Her brown eyes remained steady, looking downrange at the settling dust cloud.
"The wind shear at three hundred yards picked up to fourteen knots during lock time," Lena said softly into the quiet aisle. "Your two-MIL left hold pushed the round straight into the rotor draft. If you want a hit on Alpha in this current, you need four and a half MILs left, and an elevation drop of three-tenths to compensate for the thermal lift off the draw."
Mercer turned on her like a cornered animal, his face twitching with sheer, unadulterated fury.
"Shut up!" Mercer screamed, stepping directly into her physical space, his chest touching the fabric of her jumpsuit. "You don't talk to my shooters! You don't analyze my rounds! You are a civilian laborer! You know nothing about long-range interdiction!"
"Try it," Ryan Cole said suddenly.
Mercer froze. He turned his head slowly toward Ryan. "What did you say, Cole?"
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Ryan walked up to Firing Bench Four, unlatched the bolt of his own rifle system, and looked directly into Mercer’s eyes.
"I said try her hold, Lieutenant," Ryan stated, his tone carrying no disrespect, but an absolute, unyielding tactical demand. "Dial four and a half MILs left. Three-tenths down. Let's see if the mop lady knows what she's talking about."
