Chapter 2 - THE CHALLENGE ON THE LINE
The quiet moment between Jack and Grace was broken by the sharp, metallic clatter of rifle components from the main equipment bench.
A young SEAL Instructor in his early thirties—athletic, arrogant, with short brown hair and tactical sunglasses perched on his hat—stepped up to the registration counter. He glanced at Grace's orders, then looked down at her canvas bag with a smirk meant for the surrounding operators.
"A guest from the Corps," the instructor announced loudly, drawing the attention of half a dozen operators standing nearby. "Welcome to the NSW long-range facility, Captain."
He reached beneath the bench and pulled out an old, heavy bolt-action rifle. It was a vintage military platform featuring a worn dark-walnut stock, steel receiver, and simple iron sights—devoid of modern optics, rails, or cheek risers. The finish was worn down to bare metal in several places along the barrel.
With an amused flourish, the instructor dropped the heavy iron-sight rifle onto the rubber mat directly in front of Grace.
"Only the best shooters belong here," the instructor said, leaning his hands against the counter as several operators behind him chuckled quietly.
Grace didn't react to the provocation. She looked at the vintage weapon resting on the mat, then looked up into the instructor's eyes with absolute calm. She reached out with her bare hands, picking up the heavy rifle with fluid, effortless mechanics.
Without hesitation, she cycled the bolt—a sharp CLICK-CLACK echoing down the line—checked the clear chamber with her index finger, closed the action, and brought the stock smoothly into the pocket of her shoulder.
She balanced the weight of the long barrel across her forward hand without a single tremor in her muscles.
"Distance?" Grace asked, her voice cool and completely unaffected by the audience.
The SEAL Instructor raised an eyebrow, his smirk diminishing slightly as he watched her effortless weapon manipulation.
"Eight hundred yards," the instructor replied, pointing toward a faint white square target barely visible through the heat shimmer at the base of the distant mountain. He leaned in slightly. "Unless you need special treatment, Captain."
Grace ignored the jab entirely. "Eight hundred is fine."
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She unzipped her canvas bag, pulled out a box of match-grade ammunition, and walked directly toward Firing Lane 4.
The surrounding operators fell into a loose semicircle behind her position. What had started as a minor distraction was turning into an informal test of pride on their home range.
