Chapter 8 - The Silent Range
The massive industrial wind turbines groaned as their power was cut, the giant blades slowing down until the roaring artificial vortex died away, leaving only the natural, gentle coastal breeze wafting across the eight-hundred-yard range.
The entire grandstand was confused. Spectators leaned over the railings, whispering frantically as officials moved quickly along the firing line, resetting target parameters.
Marine Shooter Calloway watched the commotion from his lane, his eyes darting between the command platform and Tara. He walked back toward her, his tactical boots crunching on the gravel.
"What just happened up there?" Calloway asked quietly. "The official looked like he saw a ghost."
Tara gently adjusted the leather sling around her left forearm, securing the rifle against her coat. "He just read some old paperwork, Calloway. Focus on your wind call."
"I've been in the Corps fourteen years, Master Sergeant," Calloway said, leaning in closer. "I've heard rumors about certain specialized long-range units operating in the Hindu Kush back in '08. Unmarked gear, no rank insignia, single-operator interdictions at distances people said were physically impossible. They had a radio callsign that nobody ever put on an official roster."
Tara didn't look at him. She checked her scope turrets, setting her elevation dial to precisely 18.2 MOA. "Rumors are bad for your sight picture, Marine."
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"They called her the Angel of Herat," Calloway whispered, his voice filled with sudden, intense respect. "A shooter who took out a high-value target network across three valleys in a single afternoon... with a battered, tape-wrapped M24."
Tara paused for a fraction of a second, her fingers lingering on the cold steel of her rifle bolt. She didn't confirm or deny the story. She simply closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and prepared for the second round.
