Chapter 6 - Trial by Fire
The Regional Qualifier held at the Ridgecrest Shooting Complex was a completely different atmosphere from the state open. Here, three hundred of the Midwest’s top junior and adult shooters gathered under bright television floodlights, surrounded by corporate sponsorship banners and roaring crowds.
Ryan Cole sat in the head judge’s booth overlooking the 500-yard outdoor rifle course. Beside him was his fourteen-year-old son, Brandon Cole—the reigning regional junior champion, outfitted in three thousand dollars worth of custom blue-and-gold shooting gear.
“Remember what I told you, Brandon,” Ryan whispered into his son’s ear as they watched Noah walk down the lane. “The kid is using an old surplus rifle Hale bought him. He doesn't have the stomach for real competition. Pressure him early.”
Noah walked to Lane 12, carrying his simple wooden-stocked rifle in a canvas case. In his left hand, he carried his familiar faded plastic bucket.
The crowd chuckled as Noah set the bucket beside his bench.
“Hey, bucket boy!” Brandon Cole called out from Lane 11, adjusting his high-tech electronic earmuffs with a smirk. “You planning on collecting my empty brass after I beat you by twenty points?”
Noah looked over at Brandon, his expression entirely neutral. He didn't answer. He simply unzipped his canvas bag, pulled out his rifle, and laid out five shiny 6.5mm Creedmoor cartridges on the wooden table.
“Shooters to the line!” the loudspeaker blared. “Relay One: 500 yards, variable crosswind. You have ten minutes for ten shots!”
The wind at Ridgecrest was notoriously treacherous. Sweeping down from the rocky bluffs, it shifted directions every thirty seconds, whipping the red wind ribbons into violent frenzy.
“Commence firing!”
Bang! Bang! Crack!
The firing line exploded into noise. Brandon Cole immediately took aim, firing rapidly to beat the incoming wind shift. His first three shots registered as 9s and 8s on the digital board—good, but pushed off-center by the gusting air.
“Curse it!” Brandon muttered, adjusting his scope turret frantically.
Meanwhile, Noah sat motionless behind his bench.
He wasn't looking through his scope. He was watching a small yellow butterfly sitting on a blade of grass twenty feet ahead of the firing line.
“What is that kid doing?” a spectator in the grandstand murmured. “He’s losing time!”
Three minutes passed. Four minutes. Noah hadn't fired a single shot.
Ryan Cole watched from the judge’s booth with a cold smile. He’s freezing, Ryan thought. The pressure broke him.
Suddenly, the butterfly on the blade of grass folded its wings as the local ground breeze momentarily died. At the exact same second, half a mile away, the dust ribbons on the far berm drooped flat.
Noah’s index finger moved.
Crack!
10 - X.
Before the sound of the steel target ring could even travel back to the range, Noah cycled the bolt and fired again.
Crack!
10 - X.
Crack!
10 - X.
Five shots in six seconds, executed during a momentary three-second pocket of dead calm that no other shooter on the line had even noticed.
Brandon Cole looked over at Noah’s monitor and froze. His jaw dropped. “How did he… how did he read that? There was no wind signal!”
Noah slid his final five rounds into the action, waiting patiently for the next atmospheric lull.
When the ten-minute timer beeped, Noah’s board flashed a final score: 100 - 8X. A perfect round in gale-force crosswinds.
Brandon Cole slammed his shooting glove onto the table, his face white with defeat.
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Up in the booth, Ryan Cole’s radio crackled. It was Sterling Croft’s voice, cold and furious.
“He qualified, Ryan,” Croft rasped. “Do not fail me at the State Final.”
