General Adrian Mercer stared at the electronic scoring monitor as if the numbers had suddenly become dangerous.
Chapter 2
PART 2 — THE CORRECTION NO ONE WAS SUPPOSED TO KNOW
1,060 words
Then he faced the chief range officer.
“Move the target farther.”
The officer blinked.
“Sir?”
“Farther.”
“How far?”
Mercer looked directly at Emma.
“One thousand meters.”
A murmur swept through the soldiers.
Master Sergeant Vance stepped forward.
“Sir, this event isn’t designed for—”
Mercer raised one hand.
“Then today it is.”
Emma quietly reached for more ammunition.
Briggs laughed nervously.
“You’re serious?”
Mercer turned toward him.
“Completely.”
The target was moved.
Personnel repositioned.
Observers gathered behind Lane Four.
The mood had changed completely.
Nobody was laughing at Emma now.
Vance approached her while she checked the rifle.
“Lieutenant.”
Emma looked up.
“That rifle is standard issue.”
“Yes.”
“No modified optic?”
“No.”
“No adjusted trigger?”
“No.”
Vance stared at her.
“Then what exactly happened last winter?”
Emma answered simply:
“Training.”
Several feet away, Mercer heard her.
His jaw tightened.
Emma noticed.
Something passed between them that nobody else understood.
The one-thousand-meter
target was finally ready.
Wind had strengthened across the range.
Heat shimmered above the dry ground.
Emma settled behind the rifle.
Mercer stood ten feet away.
“Three rounds,” he said.
Emma nodded.
She breathed.
First shot.
Center.
A collective breath escaped from the spectators.
Emma chambered another round.
Second shot.
Center again.
Briggs whispered:
“No.”
The third round slid into place.
Emma hesitated.
Mercer watched her closely.
“Take the shot.”
She did.
Center.
For one second, the range remained completely silent.
Then it erupted.
Soldiers shouted.
Some clapped.
Briggs simply stared at the distant target as though the laws of physics had betrayed him.
But Mercer did not celebrate.
His face had gone hard.
He walked directly toward Emma.
“We need to talk.”
Emma rose from the firing position.
“Here?”
“Yes.”
His answer came too quickly.
Mercer lowered his voice.
“Who taught you that correction?”
Emma’s expression changed.
“What correction?”
“The final wind hold.”
“You.”
“No.”
Mercer stepped closer.
“I never taught you that.”
Emma stared at him.
For the first time that morning, fear appeared in her eyes.
Mercer saw it.
So did Vance.
“Where did you learn it?” Mercer whispered.
Emma glanced toward the spectators.
“I figured it out.”
Mercer shook his head.
“That correction isn’t in the Army manual.”
Vance had moved close enough to hear them.
“What correction?”
Mercer turned sharply.
“Nothing.”
But Vance’s instincts had already awakened.
He looked from Mercer to Emma.
“Sir?”
Mercer straightened.
“Return everyone to the original course.”
The chief range officer hesitated.
“You ordered the extension.”
“I’m ending it.”
Emma stepped toward him.
“General.”
“Not here.”
“Sir—”
“Not here.”
Mercer turned toward the helicopter.
And then Emma spoke.
“Project Northstar.”
Mercer stopped.
Everything around him seemed to freeze.
The helicopter still idled.
Wind still drove dust across the gravel.
Flags
still snapped above the range.
But General Adrian Mercer did not move.
Vance whispered:
“What is Northstar?”
Mercer slowly turned around.
His face had gone pale.
“Where did you hear that?”
Emma held his gaze.
“You told me.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I never said that name.”
“You did the night of January fourteenth.”
Mercer’s eyes widened.
Emma continued:
“You told me to remember three things. Wind from west to east. Never trust the official record. And if you disappeared…”
Her voice broke.
“…find the man with the silver hawk.”
Mercer stared at her.
Then slowly looked down at his own uniform.
Pinned beneath his ribbons was a small silver hawk.
Briggs shifted uneasily.
“What is going on?”
Mercer stepped closer to Emma.
“Who are you?”
The question stunned everyone.
Emma’s face emptied.
“Sir?”
“Who are you really?”
“I’m Emma Carter.”
“No.”
Mercer shook his head.
“The Emma Carter I trained last winter couldn’t make that correction.”
Emma’s breathing changed.
Vance instinctively moved between them.
Mercer’s voice sharpened.
“Move aside.”
Vance did not.
“Sir, I need clarification.”
Mercer reached toward his radio.
Emma suddenly spoke again.
“February eighteenth, 02:14. Fort Talon underground range.”
Mercer froze.
Emma continued.
“You had a scar on your left hand. You drank terrible coffee. You hated fluorescent lights.”
Mercer stared at her.
“Stop.”
“You told me your daughter used to call thunderstorms sky artillery.”
Mercer’s face went blank.
“Stop.”
Emma’s eyes filled.
“You told me you hadn’t heard her voice in twelve years.”
Mercer whispered:
“Stop.”
The authority seemed to drain from his shoulders.
He looked at Emma as if she were someone who should not exist.
Then he asked:
“Who told you about Claire?”
Emma reached slowly inside her uniform.
Several soldiers tensed.
Vance lifted one hand instinctively.
Emma removed an old photograph.
Folded.
Damaged.
She handed it to Mercer.
His hand shook as he opened it.
The picture showed a much younger Adrian Mercer standing beside a little girl.
The girl had dark-blonde hair.
Blue-gray eyes.
And a face frighteningly similar to Emma’s.
Mercer staggered half a step backward.
“No.”
Emma swallowed.
“My mother’s name was Claire Carter.”
Mercer looked up sharply.
“My daughter’s name was Claire Mercer.”
Emma nodded.
“She changed it.”
Mercer stared at the photograph.
“She died.”
“That’s what you were told.”
His head snapped up.
Emma’s voice trembled.
“She didn’t.”
The range had become completely silent.
Mercer looked like a man watching twelve years of reality collapse around him.
“She survived the convoy attack overseas,” Emma said. “Intelligence moved her under a protected identity because Northstar had been compromised.”
Vance frowned.
“What was Northstar?”
Mercer did not look away from Emma.
“A classified counter-sniper research program.”
The words landed heavily.
Emma continued.
“My mother spent years hiding. She never told me who you were until she got sick.”
Mercer swallowed.
“When?”
“Three years ago.”
“Where is she?”
Emma lowered her eyes.
Mercer understood before she answered.
“She died eight months ago.”
Something broke in the general’s face.
He turned away.
For several seconds, the most powerful man on the range could not speak.
Then Emma reached into her pocket again.
“She left this.”
A sealed envelope.
Mercer took it.
His fingers trembled as he opened the letter.
He read silently.
Halfway through, the grief disappeared from his face.
It was replaced by alarm.
He looked sharply at Emma.
“Where did you get this?”
“She gave it to me.”
Mercer turned toward Vance.
“Lock the range.”
Vance blinked.
“What?”
“Now.”
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