Chapter 4 - Silence on the Board
A heavy, sudden silence fell over the grandstands like a dropped curtain. The laughter died instantly in the throats of the spectators.
Above the center of the range, the massive LED digital scoring board flickered as the automated optical sensors downrange transmitted the target impact data.
LANE 12 — T. WELLS SCORE: 50 / 50 (5 EXTRA X-RING IMPACTS) ELAPSED TIME: 8.4 SECONDS
The timer had stopped at 8.4 seconds. A grouping of five heavy caliber rounds had passed through the exact center circle of the steel plate, punching a hole no larger than a silver dollar into the middle of the target.
The lane scorer, a young Navy petty officer, stared at his digital tablet with wide, disbelieving eyes. He refreshed the screen once. He refreshed it twice, tapping the glass with a trembling finger, assuming the sensor had malfunctioned.
"Check the optics!" someone shouted from the bleachers. "That's impossible for manual bolt-action!"
At the secondary line, Marine Shooter Calloway stopped completely. His jaw went slack as he looked at the board, then slowly turned his head to look down at Lane Twelve. Tara was already on her feet. She hadn't stayed prone to admire her work. With smooth, methodical efficiency, she cleared her chamber, verified the open action, inserted the safety flag, and lowered the rifle back into her battered case.
Rear Admiral Crawford stood frozen behind the brass railing. The dismissive smirk was completely gone from his face, replaced by a flushed, reddening mask of shock. His hands tightened around his brass pacing stick until his knuckles turned white.
By the time the remaining first-round competitors had finished their slow, calculated strings of fire, the main competition leader board updated across the entire stadium. Sitting alone, undisputed at the very top of the ranking column in bright yellow digital lighting, was the name:
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1. WELLS, T. — 50 (8.4s)
Tara sat calmly under the small blue canvas shade pop-up at the rear of Lane Twelve, sipping lukewarm water from a scratched steel canteen, completely indifferent to the storm she had just created.
