“Middle third.
Opposite the firing-line flag.”
I nodded.
“Call the hold.”
Hale’s head snapped toward him.
Briggs hesitated only briefly, then gave the correction.
I applied it and fired.
The tenth round struck the center plate.
The steel’s clean ring traveled back through the canyon.
“Ten hits,” the spotter announced.
Nobody spoke until Mercer asked, “Could the operators have identified that current without the center mast?”
“Eventually,” I said.
“After enough misses to map it.
But this was presented as a standardized qualification, not an open reconnaissance problem.
They were ordered to trust an official data system that Colonel Hale knew was incomplete.”
Hale pointed toward the target.
“She had the advantage of watching them fail.”
“Yes,” I said.
“That is what observation is for.
You watched the same failures and chose to insult them instead of investigating the pattern.”
His face hardened.
“I have run this course for eleven years.”
“That is part of the problem.”
I removed another document from the case.
It contained the qualification results from Hale’s previous four classes.
Each group showed nearly identical failure curves: high misses to the right during the morning, inconsistent vertical impacts near noon, and improved scores late in the day when the southern wall fell into shadow.
Those patterns were not random.
They were signatures of the hidden current.
Yet Hale’s official reports blamed shooter dependence on technology, inadequate mental resilience, and declining standards among younger operators.
He had used the failures to promote his own reputation as the last defender of traditional marksmanship.
He had also reported that his senior demonstration team maintained an average success rate above eighty percent.
That number was false.
I placed a small storage device beside the reports.
“This contains the original target-camera recordings from the last three courses.
Your demonstration scores were edited before submission.
Misses were removed, and impacts from practice relays were inserted into qualification sequences.”
Hale stared at the device.
“That is an accusation.”
“It is evidence.”
Mercer looked toward the range operations officer, Major Ellis, who had been standing near the rear table since the staff vehicle arrived.
“Major, were you aware of edited footage?”
Ellis swallowed.
Hale turned toward him before he could answer.
“Think very carefully.”
Mercer’s voice became quiet.
“Colonel, you will not address him again.”
Ellis looked from Hale to the operators.
His face showed the exhaustion of a man who had spent too long carrying someone else’s secret.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“I was aware.
Colonel Hale directed the edits.
He said the uncorrected results would damage confidence in the course.”
“Why did you comply?”
“I believed refusal would end my career.”
Hale stepped toward him.
