Chapter 9 - The Master's Inspection
The range remained suspended in absolute stillness. Even the wind seemed to have died down, leaving the flags hanging limp against their poles as if paying respects to the phantom of lane seven.
"Corporal Miller," General Hale barked without looking back.
"Sir!" Miller snapped, coming to attention so fast his canteen rattled against his web gear.
"Clear the range. Clear all lanes from one through twenty. Order all personnel to the secondary assembly area behind the armory. If I see a single recording device active within two hundred meters of this pavilion, the owner will face immediate non-judicial punishment under Article ninety-two. Move."
"Yes, sir!" Miller turned on his heel and began frantically herding the recruits backward. "Move out! Clear the line! Pack your gear and fall back to the staging area! Now! Move, move, move!"
Within ninety seconds, the entire pavilion had emptied of observers. The hurried sound of booted feet scrambling across gravel receded into the distance, leaving only Evelyn, General Hale, and the two stoic military policemen standing under the shade of the metal canopy.
Cole stood frozen, unsure whether he was dismissed or condemned.
"Cole," Hale commanded quietly.
"Sir?"
"Take Major Carter’s box to the central depot. Deliver it personally to Chief Warrant Officer Davies. Tell him that if this rifle does not have a hand-machined extractor installed, head-spaced to within one ten-thousandth of an inch, and returned to this bench in twenty minutes, I will strip his shop to bare concrete."
Cole moved instantly. He did not hesitate. He stepped to the bench, lifted the battered cardboard box with both hands as if it contained unexploded ordnance, bowed his head toward Evelyn in an involuntary gesture of total deference, and sprinted toward the depot building as fast as his boots could carry him.
Evelyn watched him go, the faintest trace of a dry smile touching the corners of her mouth.
"You're too hard on the boy, Marcus," she murmured, resting her hands on the edge of the shooting bench. "He’s young. He’s never had to shoot through iron sights while shivering in an irrigation ditch with two broken ribs."
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"He was disrespectful, Ma'am," Hale replied, his voice softening as the last of the subordinates disappeared. "The modern force... they rely too much on the machines. They think the gear makes the soldier."
"The gear changes," Evelyn said, looking out across the baking targets. "The wind doesn't."
