Chapter 5 - The Command from the Pavilion
The silence on the range was so profound that the only sound remaining was the distant flapping of the wind flags against the pine trees.
"That's... that's impossible," Miller stammered, leaning so close to the monitor his nose nearly touched the glass. "That's a cold barrel. No ballistics table. The wind out there is gusting to twenty-five knots across the ravine! Nobody makes that group without a computer!"
Cole swallowed hard, the arrogance draining from his expression, replaced by a defensive, panicked anger. He looked from the monitor back to Evelyn, who was calmly wrapping the yellow twine back around her cardboard box.
"She cheated," Cole blurted out, his voice cracking slightly as he looked around at his squad. "It's an electronic glitch. Or she had somebody out there with a remote punch. You can't shoot a pattern like that with iron sights and duct tape! Hey! Lady! What kind of stunt are you pulling—"
"CEASE FIRE!"
The command tore through the afternoon heat with the force of an artillery shell.
It was not the voice of a range safety officer, nor was it the voice of a drill instructor. It was a voice accustomed to addressing full divisions from parade grounds—a voice that carried the absolute, unyielding authority of thirty years of command.
Cole froze.
From the far end of the covered staging area, heavy footsteps marched across the concrete deck. The soldiers who had been laughing moments before immediately recoiled, pressing their backs against the wooden railing and snapping their heels together in rigid, terrified posture.
General Marcus Hale was striding down the center aisle of Range Four.
At fifty-eight years old, the commander of the installation was an imposing figure. He wore the immaculate uniform of a two-star general, his chest adorned with rows of ribbons that told the story of every major theater of American conflict since the late Cold War. His face was weathered like granite, his jaw squared, his steel-gray hair cropped close to his skull. Flanking him were two towering Military Police officers in full tactical gear, their sidearms holstered, their expressions carved from ice.
Cole let out a long breath of relief, the color rushing back into his cheeks.
"Sir!" Cole shouted, turning toward the approaching general and rendering a rigid, textbook salute. "General Hale, sir! This civilian breached the perimeter line on Lane Seven, sir! She’s operating an unauthorized, unsafe weapon and disrupting active qualification drills. I was just about to have her detained, sir!"
General Hale did not acknowledge Cole’s salute. He did not even look at the sergeant.
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The general pushed past Cole with such momentum that the young sergeant was forced to stumble back against the ammunition crates to avoid being bowled over.
Hale’s eyes were locked entirely on the figure standing at shooting bench number seven.
