Chapter 5 - The Wind Machines
An hour passed as the sun crested its peak, turning the sky into a harsh, metallic dome. The tension along the firing line had grown thick enough to choke on.
Suddenly, a loud hydraulic hiss echoed across the asphalt as several heavy military flatbed trucks backed up along the flanks of the eighth-hundred-yard range line. Mounted on the flatbeds were four massive industrial wind-turbine generators—the kind used for high-velocity aerodynamic testing.
The digital board flickered, updating with new rules for the next stage:
ROUND TWO — 800 YARDS (VARIABLE CROSSWIND COND. ALPHA)
Murmurs of shock and confusion erupted among the remaining twenty competitors.
"They're rolling out wind machines?" a shooter two lanes down grumbled angrily. "That's not in the inter-service competition handbook! That creates artificial vortex turbulence!"
Marine Shooter Calloway sling-slung his rifle over his back and walked briskly across the staging area toward Tara's shade tent. He leaned against the aluminum support frame, looking down at her as she sat cleaning her barrel with a brass bore snake.
"He's changing the parameters mid-match," Calloway said softly, glancing over his shoulder toward the central command pavilion where Crawford was talking heatedly with the competition directors. "He brought out the industrial fans. He’s deliberately setting up an unpredictable shear-wind wall at four hundred yards to throw off your light hand-loads. He’s coming after you, Master Sergeant."
Tara didn't look up from her work. She pulled the bore snake through the breech with one smooth, continuous pull, wiping away the faint traces of carbon.
She closed her battered rifle case, locking the rusty metal latches into place with a series of sharp, decisive clicks.
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"Then let him," Tara said quietly.
Across the dirt road, standing elevated on the wooden command deck, Rear Admiral Crawford adjusted his white peaked cap. He held a pair of high-powered military binoculars to his eyes, staring directly down at Tara’s small shade tent. A cold, satisfied smile slowly returned to his lips as the industrial turbines began to roar, blowing dust and sand across the eight-hundred-yard range in turbulent, swirling gusts.
