“Standard issue for precision work.” As Madison accepted the ammunition, her fingers brushed against Kelly's hand, and the Master Chief felt calluses that had nothing to do with maintenance work. They were the hardened ridges of someone who had spent countless hours gripping rifle stocks. The kind of calluses that took years to develop and were impossible to fake. The group moved toward the range in a cluster with Madison walking slightly apart from the others.
Jake Torres found himself studying her movement, noting the way she automatically positioned herself where she could see all the exits, the way her eyes continuously scanned for potential threats. It was tactical behavior ingrained to the point of being unconscious.
The Coronado base shooting range stretched out before them like a concrete amphitheater designed for the deadly arts. Multiple firing positions were carved into artificial berms with electronic target systems that could be positioned at distances ranging from 50 m to over a kilometer. The Pacific Ocean provided a natural backstop, its blue-gray waters stretching to the horizon under the morning sun. Master Chief Kelly activated the electronic systems, bringing online a target at exactly 800 m. The circular target appeared as a small dot in the distance, barely visible to the naked eye. Even with magnified optics, hitting it consistently required exceptional skill and extensive training.
Madison knelt at the designated firing position, adjusting the M24's bipod legs with practiced efficiency. She worked the bolt to chamber a round, her movements economical and precise. Around her, the SEALs formed a semicircle. Some openly skeptical, others genuinely curious about what was going to happen.
“One magazine, five rounds,” Kelly announced, his voice carrying the formal tone of an official qualification. “Targets will be scored electronically and results displayed on the monitor. Shooter, are you ready?” Madison settled into her prone position, the rifle stock nestled against her shoulder with perfect consistency. She adjusted the scope's magnification and began her sight picture, taking her time despite the pressure of having 50 elite operators watching her every move.
Through the scope, the target sprang into sharp focus, 800 m, not particularly challenging by her standards, but far enough to reveal whether someone possessed genuine precision shooting skills or was simply pretending. The wind was calm, maybe 3 mph from the southwest, not enough to significantly affect trajectory.
Madison's breathing slowed, becoming deep and rhythmic. Her heart rate decreased as she entered the meditative state that all precision shooters learn to access. The world narrowed to the small circle of her scope. The crosshairs steady on the target center despite the fact that she was being watched by dozens of skeptical eyes. The first shot broke with perfect surprise, the result of steady rearward pressure that seemed to fire the rifle without conscious thought.
Through the scope, Madison saw the impact. A clean hit in the nine ring just outside perfect center.
“Hit,” Kelly called out, reading the electronic display. “9.2.” Murmurs ran through the crowd. It was a good shot, better than many of the SEALs could achieve under pressure, but one shot could be luck. Madison cycled the bolt smoothly, ejecting the spent case and chambering a fresh round.