IF ONLY THEY KNEW

The sun beat down on my body as I lay on the ground at the five-hundred-metre firing point of the classified range. Only a select few knew the secret location, interrupted by distant gunfire. Aiming down the scope, I took a deep breath and concentrated on my target, aware of the rifle’s weight in my hands. My heart pounded in my chest as I readied myself to aim, acutely aware that the outcome of this moment could determine whether I lived or died. The air was thick with anticipation, every sound magnified in the silence. I focused on my target, the weight of my weapon heavy in my hands. Everything depended on this shot.

As I lay in the grass, I noticed a small, white peg beside me with the number 4.4 inscribed. Looking up, I saw the same number repeated on the distant butt above the six-foot-square target. Despite the late May dusk, my infrared Sniperscope, fixed above my rifle, provided a clear picture of the entire canvas. Pale blue and beige colours divided the target, with a six-inch semicircular bull that appeared as large as the half-moon in the darkening sky above the estuary. I set my sights on the inner left shot, carefully positioning myself and lining up my shot. I pulled the trigger, but to my disappointment, the bullet missed the target, and my attempt was unsuccessful.

I raised my eyes and observed the fluttering yellow-and-blue wind flags. As I crouched behind the Sniperscope, I made minor adjustments to my aim, considering the wind’s direction and strength. Once I felt confident, I nestled myself, placing my index finger inside the trigger guard and onto the trigger curve. I took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then exhaled, controlling my breathing as I prepared to take the shot. With a soft squeeze, I pulled the trigger, and the sound of the shot echoed across the desolate range. The target disappeared underground, and the “dummy” emerged.

As I examined the object more closely, I couldn’t help but notice that the black panel, which previously had a bull image on its bottom left, now had a bull image on its bottom right. The shift in position of the bull image was a surprising and exciting detail that caught my attention.

From behind and above, the range officer exclaimed, “Excellent.”

When the target reappeared, I repositioned myself to get a better aim. I wiped my gun hand against the side of my trousers to rid it of any sweat or moisture. My fingers curled around the pistol grip, feeling the cool metal beneath my skin. With a slight change to my stance, I planned for five rapid rounds, splaying my legs an inch further apart to ensure stability.

Let’s see if that causes fade.

Upon examining the weapon, its state-of-the-art features amazed me. The gun boasted an unparalleled ability to make distant enemies appear vulnerable. Its super-accurate target system, which was complemented by making this possible a designed, curved aluminium handgrip at the back of the butt. The grip extended under my armpit and gripped the stock into my shoulder, providing maximum stability and precision with each shot. I positioned the adjustable pinion below the rifle’s centre of gravity, which allowed me to secure the stock into its grooved wooden rest, further enhancing its stability and accuracy.

The manufacturer assured me that the weapon is accurate at 500m if I wait two seconds between shots. They replaced the bolt action with a five-shot magazine. Still, I’m worried about the delay for my first shot.

The colonel advised a 300-metre range for the mission, with the target moving away from me. With this valuable information, I felt more self-assured about achieving success in my task.

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll give you a count-down from five. Now! Five, four, three, two, one. Fire!”

I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves as I positioned myself for the shot. The ground beneath me trembled, almost as if it were mirroring the tension I felt inside. With a practised hand, I aimed my firearm and squeezed the trigger. The surrounding air seemed to vibrate with the sound of the five cupro-nickel bullets as they whizzed through the atmosphere, each one hurtling towards its intended destination with deadly accuracy. The world seemed to hold its breath as the bullets closed in on their target until, with a resounding thud, the target fell, signalling my success.

I hit the target, but only four white discs appeared instead of five.

 “The last round was low.” The range officer lowered his night-glasses and remarked. “Thanks for the contribution. We sift the sand on those butts at the end of every year. Always aim for a minimum of fifteen tons of lead and copper scrap from them. Good money.”

I got to my feet.

My mentor appeared from the pavilion of the Gun Club and knelt to dismantle the rifle and its rest. His gaze met mine, tinged with criticism, as he spoke.

“You were taking it fast. Last round was bound to jump wide.”

“I know, Colonel. I wanted to determine how fast I could go. I’m not blaming the weapon. It’s a hell of a fine job. Now, I’d better get moving. You’re finding your way back, aren’t you?”

“Yes, and don’t worry, you’ve got this.”

The range officer handed me a record of my shoot – two sighting shots and ten rounds at each hundred metres up to five hundred.

“Damned good firing with this visibility.”

“I’m grateful for your help.”

The Clock Tower displayed 9:15 as the firing stopped, and the red danger flag and signal drum lowered.

“I’d like to have bought you a drink, but I have an appointment. Can we hold it over until the next time I come up?”

The range officer nodded.

We walked through the handsome facade behind the range of my car. We shook hands and said our polite farewells.

“I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name?” He asked as I climbed into my car.

“Oswald,” I said, “Lee Harvey Oswald.”