Chapter 4 - WIND MACHINES AND SHADE TENTS
By mid-afternoon, the sun had shifted across the western horizon, casting long, sharp shadows over the range. The leaderboard displayed on the giant LED screens near the main entrance showed a single, startling reality: Tara Wells, competing without a team, a coach, or a sponsor, occupied sole possession of first place. Her score was immaculate, having cleared three consecutive precision heats without dropping a single point.
Behind the firing line, however, the atmosphere was far from celebratory.
Near the target pits, heavy utility vehicles were idling. Range technicians under direct orders from the official review committee were busy unbolting the steel targets and moving them back to the eight-hundred-yard mark—the absolute limit for the afternoon light. Simultaneously, two massive, diesel-powered industrial wind generators, typically reserved for testing flight hardware, were rolled onto the side margins of the range.
Under a black shade tent behind Lane Eight, Marine Shooter Calloway sat on a folding bench, cleaning his match rifle's bolt. Late thirties, with a rugged, line-drawn face and the intense eyes of an experienced combat marksman, Calloway had been watching the interaction between Crawford and Tara all day.
He poured a splash of solvent onto a rag, his eyes tracking the movements of the range crew as they positioned the massive fan blades toward the middle lanes.
Tara sat on a wooden crate nearby, calmly folding the wax paper wrapper from her homemade sandwich. She placed the trash neatly inside her pocket, her expression as serene as if she were sitting on her front porch.
Calloway stepped out from beneath his shade tent, leaning against the support pole a few feet from her.
“He’s coming after you,” Calloway said softly, his voice low enough to avoid the nearby media microphones. “Moving the line to eight hundred is one thing, but rolling out wind machines for a regional final is unheard of. Crawford’s setting up Lane Twelve to take a cross-draft penalty.”
Tara didn't look up immediately. She smoothed down the edge of her field top and leaned back against the wooden support.
“Protests don’t pay three hundred thousand,” Tara replied calmly.
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Calloway let out a quiet, appreciative grunt. The championship purse was three hundred thousand dollars—a life-changing sum for an unsponsored veteran, but pocket change to the corporate programs lining Crawford’s pockets.
Across the green lawn of the review pavilion, Rear Admiral Crawford stood with his hands folded behind his back. He leaned against the railing, sipping a chilled beverage, watching Tara with a tight, satisfied smile. In his mind, no shooter using an ancient rifle with hand-adjusted glass could survive a heavy, artificial crosswind at eight hundred yards. The game was rigged, and he owned the board.
