Chapter 10 - THE WIND AND THE WALL
The afternoon sun began its slow descent behind the dry, jagged ridges of the Absaroka Range, casting long, dramatic shadows across the pale gravel lanes of Range 4.
The red safety flags continued to snap violently against the steel poles, their sharp cracks echoing across the draw as the high-desert temperature began its rapid evening plummet.
The soldiers of Combat Group Charlie quietly cleared the staging area, filing into the back of their troop transports in absolute silence. The laughter, the bragging, and the arrogant chatter that usually accompanied a day at the range had vanished entirely, replaced by a subdued, reflective quiet.
At Bay 7, Master Sergeant Donovan stood alone beside the concrete partition, watching Private Emma Carter pack her protective gear into her canvas sea-bag.
Emma worked with the same quiet, methodical efficiency she had displayed on the firing line. She folded her peltor hearing protection, wiped down her clear ballistic glasses, and zipped her bag closed with a smooth, unhurried motion.
Donovan walked over, leaning her hip against the concrete wall.
"You know, Carter," Donovan said, pulling a cigarette from her pocket and lighting it against the wind. "You could have just shot a normal four-inch group like everyone else. Saved yourself a lot of attention."
Emma slung her canvas bag over her shoulder. She looked out across the pale gravel range toward the distant, concrete backstop where her rounds had struck the stone.
"My father always told me never to waste lead, Sergeant," Emma said softly, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching the corner of her mouth. "If you're going to put a hole in something, you might as well put every round in the same place."
Donovan let out a short, dry laugh, blowing a plume of grey smoke into the howling Wyoming crosswind.
"Get some rest, Carter," Donovan said, nodding toward the waiting logistics truck. "Tomorrow morning at 0600, you're going to teach a lot of arrogant men how to actually hold a rifle."
"Yes, Master Sergeant," Emma replied.
May you like
She turned and walked smoothly across the pale gravel toward the waiting transport vehicle, her boots crunching rhythmically against the stone. She moved with the quiet, effortless grace of a soldier who needed no medals, no badges, and no applause to know exactly what she was capable of doing.
Behind her, at the far end of Range 4, the distant concrete backstop stood tall and gray against the fading sun—its rough surface bearing a single, tiny, four-millimeter mark in the stone that no one who was there that day would ever forget.
