" Standby to begin Round: One. "
A booming, baritone voice sounded through the length of the cavernous range, accompanied by a brief buzzer tone. At once, a blue holographic construct flickered on at the far end of it, instantly contoured into the shape of the front of a multi-windowed, and multi storied house.
More holograms, shaped to resemble a human silhouette, appeared, with burnt orange denoting' hostile', and cobalt blue being 'innocents ', or ' teammates. '. They were grouped and clustered randomly, arranged so as to make it required to line up a shot carefully before pulling the trigger.
That was what was east about it. Actually hitting the right ones was anything but.
They strafed back and forth fast, often overlapping each other momentarily. 'Greens ' were placed in the middle of a line of 'Oranges ', or an ' Orange ' would fade, only to be replaced with a ' Green '. An unprepared shooter could- and often did- easily fire a second too soon, or one too late, making the horrid mistake of taking out a ' Green ', costing them a sizable number of points off their final score, and somberly reminding them that they'd just shot a comrade or a noncombatant.
Unacceptable.
That kind of induced stress was good, though. Encouraged diligence, and made you more meticulous , and careful. especially for snipers. More than the rest, their craft demanded the utmost of both, and ranges like this one let sharpshooters from throughout ATLAS's ranks to keep their skills sharp. It was better to make mistakes here, than out in the field.
Ilona Volkov was one of them.
An athletic brunette, dressed in standard issue ATLAS fatigues and boots, and with her dark hair neatly pinned back, she sat with impeccable form at the far end of row of stations, with an .338 Lapua Mag chambered M24A3 pressed to her shoulder. Her index finger rested against the weapon's trigger guard, and her cheek upon its stock.
She stared down its Leopold scope, minutely tweaking its zoom finder to center its crosshairs exactly the way she liked.
Her breathing was slow and measured she adjusted her hand around the M24's stock,adjusting its rangefinder and she reveled in being in her element: Her, the rifle, and the targets waiting to be shot. There was serenity to be found here, in a mindset like this, when you were carrying out your vocation.
Teacher, policeman, tailor….solider. If you loved what you did, you didn't work at all. And Ilona loved this. Once the round began, it would remind her why.
Only a few more seconds…
" Round One: Begin. "
With the buzz of a klaxon, he targets began to move.
Time to go to work.
With perfectly smooth, effortless application of pressure, Ilona squeezed the trigger.
Vibrations raced up its stock, as a 338. Lapua AP round rocketed from the muzzle toward an orange holographic target gliding back and forth in pairs and trios past the windows of a front of a simulated house.
At over 3,000 ft. per second, the round was downrange nearly from the instant it was fired. It tore a corridor through the air, leaving only a wisp of smoke in its wake, to hammer into its mark. The orange target shattered into a burst of shards like a glass vase, twirling and showering away.
A direct hit.
She was already cycling the M24's bolt, sending the spent brass cartwheeling up and out, to clink down beside the weapon in a neat pile of fellow spent the moment it landed, its replacement was already being slammed into place. Ilona completed the reloading without pulling back from the scope, and again stared down it, realigning for the next shot.
The rest of the targets were still strafing back and forth, but now, their grouping had changed in that confusing way, trying to get her to fire at the wrong moment. It was a clever piece of programming, that was for certain…
. …and another was obliterated anyway. Another spent cartridge clinked and bounced to the cold metal deck.
More targets appeared, strafed, and shifted position.
Ilona engaged them.
It was as cathartic as it was relaxing, and Ilona relished it. She planned for the next shot even as she fired the one before it, slipping into a familiar rhythm. Every shot, every trigger pull was, to her at least, a stamp of quality. A signature. Her own way of saying that these were her shots, and they were on target.
" Round One: Complete. "
Ilona ( reflexively, again ) exhaled. Her trigger finger relaxed, and some of the tension left her shoulders.
The first batch was wiped out .
30 tangos KIA, without any ' Greens' lost, as the scoring system was quick to proclaim:
" Your score was: Excellent. "
Flawless as that may have been, though, Ilona always felt that succeeding now reminded her of when she'd been nowhere near this level, and she was grateful for that. She'd been a green rookie same as the rest once. It was humbling to think of that.
Glancing over to the space beside the M24, she quickly counted 30 casings piled upon each other, their shiny brass sides quickly cooling….
Once one more target cycle had been completed, Ilona finally elected to stop. She rendered safe the M24, swept the spent brass into the disposal chute located against the walls of the firing station she'd been at, then carried the rifle over to the weapon's cleaning room off to the side of the main hall. Setting it down carefully on its side on one of the tables, she retrieved a cleaning case from one of the table drawers.
As she set about cleaning the weapon, inserting the swab down through the breech and scouring it clean, it reflected on something else: weapon cleaning and maintenance was, to her, every bit as rewarding as firing it. Whether it was a weapon like this, a quality match grade M-24, or a rusted out AK-47, if was your weapon, then it deserved to be treated with the utmost care, as if it were alive.
This was a basic principle, like gravity.
You looked after it when it, gave it the attention it deserved, and it would repay you by looking out for you as you had for it.
Even the most advanced of armament is useless without being cared for by those who wield it. That was the mantra Ilona had followed ever since she'd first learned how to use a rifle, during her days at the GRU. It had served her well so far.
She continued her swabbing, scouring the M24 into factory fresh status.
She was nearly finished, too, when footsteps suddenly sounded on the stairs.