Aug. 25, 2009 - 7:42pm

- Transmission from fargo007

“TARGET”

I'm momentarily reminded of how much I enjoyed watching her tiny but precise fingers form guitar chords when I taught her to play. Now, even in these dire circumstances I still feel that same pride as I see her tiny fingers rotating the large elevation knob on the NightForce 3.5-15x50, as she counts off 3.25 Minutes of elevation.

“Got it Dad.” She exclaims, as we watch the edges of the lonely glow on the ground, cast there by the only remaining street light. I Milled the stop sign right next to it. It is exactly 350 yards away.

“Keep that bolt up until we have a target kiddo. Got that?”

I'm looking through my own Nightforce down the same alleyway of houses that leads to a more populated street. Both rifles are condition 1, with a round in the chamber, and each sporting a fat AICS mag of nine 175 Sierra Matchkings underneath. This distance is a joke for these rigs, but the cases of water and canned food downstairs remind me we're paid to be here, people are depending on us, and we need to follow through on what we promised we would do.

“Ughhhh!!!.... Dad... you don't have to keep telling me every single .....”

“TARGET. “

350 yards, 11 o' clock, left edge of the intersection, no wind, slow mover, center hold is fine!”

I had tuned out her pre-teen diatribe, as Dad's are apt to do.

I hear hear “prepare” breath escape gently as the bolt knob of the FN SPR slowly and precisely drops into place. I recognize the faint sound of shuffling as she finds her natural point of aim.

“Shooter Ready”

“Send”

“Sending”

The rifle barks loudly, and the recoil causes her 11 year old frame to slide to the rear about a half inch on top of the series of dressers that we have set up as a shooting platform next to the window. This is foreign on so many levels... Ordinarily I'd be in the back of the room, shooting through a hole I'd gouge into one of the dressers or other furniture. It's not like that this time. We don't have to worry about light discipline, a barrel being spotted, or any other target indicator. I've not grown lazy. These issues don't matter, and that's good, because I haven't had a chance to work with her on them yet.

“HIT!” I exclaim, the cheerful excitement of a father in my voice as I watch the shock from 175 grains of hurt smash hard into the high torso of the humanoid figure, almost bending it 90 degrees back from the legs in an grotesque contortion before its head slammed into the ground with significant force.

I turn to congratulate her on the shot only to be pelted in the cheek by hot brass, as she smartly resourced the rifle with her eye still on the glass, and the target still in the crosshairs.

“C'mon Dad....... You're goofing off again.”

I can see it still writing, but only from about the shoulders upward.

“Should we hit it again?” She wondered aloud, her eye still rock steady on the Nightforce. "I've got a clear outline of the head against the curb now.”

“Holy Mackrel!!!” I roll my eyes, as I drop back onto my own glass. The McMillan A5 feels like home to my shoulder as I tuck tight into the rifle glass the area for other threats. Finding no other, and knowing she's ready to show me something, I catch her cheek straining a wry smile as I give her exactly what she's been waiting for.....

“TARGET.”

- End of Transmission