Chapter 9 - Eight Hundred Yards
"Shooters to your marks!" the loudspeaker blared.
The twenty remaining competitors dropped to the prone position along the concrete firing line. The sun was merciless now, beating straight down onto their backs, creating a dense, dancing heat mirage over the eight-hundred-yard targets.
On the command platform, Admiral Crawford stood completely silent. His theatrical confidence was shattered, replaced by a growing, paranoid anxiety. He kept his eyes glued to the back of Tara's head as she settled down onto her elbow pads at Lane Twelve.
Beep.
The signal dropped for Round Two.
While other shooters hesitated, adjusting their advanced digital tracking scopes to account for the mirage, Tara operated on pure muscle memory and decades of instinct.
BANG.
Her first shot rang out instantly.
CLANG.
A split second later, the heavy steel target at eight hundred yards violently swung backward, the impact mark glowing bright pink under the scoring optics.
BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG.
She didn't wait for the mirage to clear. She timed her shots between her own heartbeats, working the bolt of her ancient rifle with terrifying, fluid speed. Five shots in 7.9 seconds.
Downrange, the steel target looked as if it had been struck by an artillery shell. All five rounds had impacted within a two-inch circle directly over the center mounting bolt.
The digital board updated instantly:
May you like
LANE 12 — T. WELLS SCORE: 100 / 100 (PERFECT CUMULATIVE) NEW CHAMPIONSHIP RECORD — 7.9 SECONDS
The grandstands erupted into a deafening roar of applause. Rangers, Marines, and sailors stood up in the bleachers, cheering wildly for the retired Master Sergeant at Lane Twelve. The broadcast camera crews scrambled over one another to get a clear close-up of her face.
