Chapter 3 - THE INQUIRY OF THE COLONEL
The rifle rose smoothly from the table surface.
Elena did not strain against the weight. She brought the receiver to chest height, holding the weapon in a textbook inspection position, the muzzle oriented at a safe forty-five-degree angle toward the concrete floorboards.
With her right index finger, she flicked the safety lever forward into the trigger guard—a sharp, mechanical SNAP that resonated through the quiet room. Her left hand moved rearward, hooking two fingers under the serrated operating rod handle.
CH-CHAK.
With one smooth, fluid stroke, she drew the heavy steel bolt all the way to the rear, locking it open against the bolt stop. She tilted the receiver inward to inspect the chamber, visually and physically verifying that the steel barrel was clear, her pinky finger dipping into the feed way to confirm the absence of a live round.
Her hands moved with an eerie, mechanical economy—every motion stripped of excess flourish, every movement executed with the unthinking fluidity of someone who had cleared this specific, obsolete action thousands of times.
From the far corner of the briefing room, beside the sprawling whiteboard, Colonel Marcus Vance stepped forward.
At fifty-four, Vance was a towering, austere figure whose presence instantly dictated the room's gravity. His hair was cropped close and peppered with steel-gray, his jaw set in a permanent, unforgiving line. Unlike Rourke and his subordinates, Vance wore an older, faded set of utilities, his chest bearing no decorative badges save for the subdued silver eagle on his collar. He had remained motionless for the past ten minutes, his arms folded loosely over a leather-bound clipboard, his dark, deep-set eyes observing every micro-expression and movement on the floor.
Vance took three heavy, measured strides toward the center table. The soft creak of his leather boots silenced the remaining chatter among the shooters.
He stopped five paces away, his gaze shifting from the battered wooden stock in Elena’s hands up to her calm, unreadable face.
"Is there a problem, Captain?" Vance asked.
His voice was a gravelly, low baritone that rumbled with authority. It was neither an accusation nor an offer of sympathy; it was a cold, forensic inquiry from a commander demanding an assessment of operational readiness.
Rourke shifted his weight, his smirk returning as he anticipated Elena's formal complaint to the senior officer. He prepared to counter her with regulations about equipment availability and adaptability under field conditions.
Elena did not look away from the rifle. Her eyes remained locked onto the blued steel of the open receiver.
May you like
"No, sir," Elena said.
Her response was flat, steady, and devoid of the slightest inflection of grievance.
