Chapter 8 - THE ARRIVAL OF THE TACTICAL UNIT
Before Grant could ask another question, the low rumble of heavy diesel engines echoed from the access road behind the spectator grandstands.
Two dark, unmarked tactical utility vehicles pulled up to the perimeter gate of the range. Four figures stepped out—men wearing plain tactical uniforms devoid of unit patches or rank insignia, carrying hard-shell transit cases and specialized communication equipment.
They didn't walk toward the main administrative tent. They didn't speak to the competition judges.
They walked directly along the rear safety line toward Lane 14.
The spectator gallery parted silently as the four men approached, their presence radiating a cold, professional authority that instantly silenced any remaining chatter in the crowd. The lead operator—a tall, weathered man with graying hair and dark sunglasses—stopped right beside the Range Officer’s station.
He didn't say a word to Grant. He didn't look at the competition scoreboard.
He simply looked down at Claire, giving her a brief, subtle nod of acknowledgment.
"Impact confirmed, Lieutenant," the gray-haired operator said, his voice flat and authoritative. "Cold bore, first round, crosswind corrected."
Claire finished securing the bolt of her precision rifle, clicking the safety selector into the lock position, and stood up smoothly from her shooting mat. "The elevation offset was two-tenths higher than calculated due to the thermal lift off the lower rocks," she noted quietly.
The operator nodded once, making a brief note on a digital tablet he carried in his tactical pouch. "Adjusted for the afternoon grid. Good work."
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Grant looked between Claire, the gray-haired operator, and the Range Officer, his frustration finally boiling over.
"Is someone going to explain what is happening on my range?" Grant demanded, stepping forward. "I am the senior marksmanship officer for this unit! She just broke competition rules, ignored her assigned target, and fired an unauthorized round past the safety perimeter!"
