Chapter 9 - THE UNMASKING OF THE GHOST
Lena did not answer his question.
She walked past Mercer without asking for permission, her wet work boots leaving dark, clear footprints on the dry concrete floor. She stepped up to Firing Bench Four, looking down at the Mk 22 sniper rifle resting on its bipod.
She reached out her hand. This time, Mercer did not slap her wrist. He subconsciously stepped three feet backward, his arms dropping to his sides.
Lena’s calloused fingers moved across the rifle with a fluid, terrifying familiarity. In less than three seconds, without looking down at her hands, she verified the action was clear, checked the bolt face clearance, felt the barrel temperature with the edge of her palm, and adjusted the optical parallax wheel by four millimeters with a single, precise flick of her thumb.
Petty Officer Grant walked slowly out from behind the ammunition table, his eyes fixed on the back of Lena’s faded gray jumpsuit.
"Lieutenant..." Grant said softly, his voice echoing in the silent range. "You don't recognize her, do you?"
Mercer turned his head sharply toward the armorer. "Recognize who? She's a contractor from the base facilities department!"
Grant shook his head slowly, a quiet, respectful smile touching his lips as he looked at Lena.
"Her name is Master Chief Lena Hart," Grant revealed quietly. "She retired three years ago after sixteen years with Special Reconnaissance Team One. She was the primary marksmanship instructor for the Naval Special Warfare Sniper School at Camp Pendleton for six years. She holds the long-range record on this exact canyon facility—eleven hundred yards through a thirty-knot wind shear with a bolt-action .308."
The revelation hit the firing line like a secondary explosion.
Candidate Miller’s jaw dropped open. The four trainees behind him straightened their postures instantly, dropping their eyes in absolute, profound embarrassment for the way they had laughed at her twenty minutes earlier.
Mercer’s face drained of every drop of color, leaving him looking as pale as the white paper target backings hanging behind the benches.
He had slapped the wrist of the most decorated long-range marksmanship instructor in the history of the Naval Special Warfare command. He had forced a Master Chief who had taken shots in hostile territory across four continents to mop dirty water off his deck.
May you like
Lena slowly turned around to face Mercer.
Her brown eyes were neither angry nor triumphant. They carried only the cold, unyielding authority of a warrior who had mastered every aspect of her craft long before Mercer had ever put on an officer's uniform.
