“I don't care what some desk jockey in maintenance thinks,” Morrison snapped, tossing the clipboard onto the nearest weapon rack where it clattered against an M4 carbine. “Nobody touches our gear without direct authorization from me. Especially not some civilian contractor who probably can't tell the difference between a safety and a trigger.” The SEALs around them chuckled, but Madison noticed something interesting in their reactions. While the younger operators laughed openly, some of the veterans were watching her more carefully.
Master Chief Pat Kelly, a 22-year Navy veteran with arms like tree trunks and a face carved from granite, had positioned himself where he could observe both the confrontation and Madison's reactions. “Tank, escort Miss Maintenance out of here before she breaks something expensive,” Morrison ordered, jerking his thumb toward petty officer Marcus Williams. At 6-foot-2 and built like his nickname suggested, Tank stepped forward with the predatory grin of someone who enjoyed intimidating people smaller than himself.
“Come on, sweetheart,” Tank said, reaching for Madison's arm. “Time to go back to mopping floors and leave the real work to the professionals.” Madison stepped back smoothly, avoiding his grasp without making it look confrontational.
“I understand your concern, sir,” she said to Morrison, never taking her eyes off the commander. “But I need to complete this maintenance schedule or the weapons won't pass their monthly inspection.”
“Monthly inspection?” Seaman Danny Rodriguez called out from the back of the group, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“What are you going to inspect? Whether we wipe them down good enough? Maybe check if we missed any dust bunnies?” The crowd erupted in laughter, but Madison remained calm. She knelt back down beside the Barrett, her movements deliberate and controlled.
Without looking up, she began reassembling the bolt carrier group she had disassembled moments earlier. “The Barrett M82A1 has a maximum effective range of 1,800 m against personnel targets,” she said conversationally, her fingers moving with practiced efficiency.
“But with proper ammunition selection and environmental compensation, effective range can be extended to 2,500 meters or beyond.” The laughter died away. Several SEALs exchanged glances. That wasn't information you picked up from a Wikipedia article. Madison continued working, her voice steady and factual.
“This particular weapon shows wear patterns consistent with approximately 2,000 rounds fired. The muzzle brake has been modified for reduced flash signature. And someone has installed a custom trigger group that reduces pull weight to approximately 3 1/2 lb.” Lieutenant Jake Torres, at 24, the youngest officer in the team, found himself leaning forward to get a better look. Madison was right.
The trigger had been modified, something only someone with extensive weapons knowledge would notice, and the round count estimate was eerily accurate. He had personally supervised the last barrel replacement after exactly 2,37 rounds.
“How do you know that?” Jake asked, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. Madison finished reassembling the weapon and looked up at him. For just a moment, her carefully maintained composure seemed to slip, revealing something harder underneath.