Her position remained rock steady, the rifle tracking naturally back to the target without apparent effort. The second shot followed within 30 seconds.
“Hit 9.7.” Now the murmurs were taking on a different tone. Two consecutive hits at 800 meters suggested skill rather than fortune. Several SEALs were checking their own scoped weapons, trying to spot the target that Madison was hitting with apparent ease. The third shot came after a longer pause as Madison waited for a subtle wind shift to settle.
When the rifle fired, the electronic target system registered the impact immediately. “Hit 10.0 perfect center.” Commander Morrison stepped up to the electronic display, staring at the readout as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing.
“This has to be a malfunction.” “Systems working fine, sir,” the range technician replied.
“That's a perfect shot at 800 m.” Madison chambered her fourth round, her breathing still controlled and rhythmic. Around her, the crowd had grown completely silent, watching in fascination as the maintenance worker they had been mocking demonstrated shooting skills that most of them would never achieve. The fourth shot was another perfect 10. The bullet striking within millimeters of the third shot's impact point. Madison was shooting a group that could be covered by a quarter at a distance where most people couldn't even see the target clearly.
“Two perfect 10s,” Kelly announced, his voice betraying genuine admiration. “One shot remaining.” Madison cycled the bolt for the final time, settling back into her shooting position with the same calm precision she had shown throughout the string of fire. But this time, something was different. Instead of taking careful aim through the scope, she made a subtle adjustment to the rifle's position and removed her eye from the optics entirely.
“What's she doing?” Torres whispered to Kelly.
“I think she's about to show off,” Kelly replied grimly. Madison fired the fifth shot using only the rifle's iron sights, the small metal posts and apertures that were considered backup aiming devices. Shooting accurately with iron sights at 800 m was nearly impossible, requiring exceptional eyesight, perfect technique, and years of practice. The target system registered the final impact.
“Hit 10.0.” The range fell absolutely silent except for the sound of waves against the distant shore. Madison had just fired a perfect qualification score using iron sights for her final shot, a demonstration of skill that went far beyond anything a civilian maintenance worker should possess. She safed the rifle and stood slowly, her expression giving nothing away. But Jake Torres noticed something that made his blood run cold.
Madison's hands were completely steady. No adrenaline tremor, no excitement, no indication that she had just accomplished something extraordinary. For her, shooting a perfect score at 800 m appeared to be routine.
“Holy cow.” Rodriguez breathed, his earlier mockery completely forgotten. Commander Morrison stared at the electronic display showing five consecutive hits, three of them perfect scores. His face had gone pale, and he seemed to be struggling to process what he had just witnessed.