Breathe. In, out, in, out. Find your rhythm. Slow your heartrate, narrow your focus. Don’t anticipate.
I run through my mantra, just once. I know the routine. I’m on my stomach, flat against the hard ground, rifle pressed to my shoulder. My hands caress the stock of the L115. The bolt-action rifle is the weapon of choice for the British military and in-the-know private contractors this year. More accurate even than the M110 favored by the Americans, or so some insist. Past users have set world records with this rifle.
Most long-range shooters, particularly those with a single perfect shot to make, find the bolt-action rifle more reliable and more accurate. I do. It’s also lighter and it breaks down more easily. To be honest, there’s something wholly satisfying about the sound of an ejected cartridge.
The air is unusually clear and dry for November. The wind has receded; the temperature requires only a light jacket and jeans. I’m wearing noise-cancelling earphones, not that I need them. I line up my target through my Schmidt & Bender scope. I’m using the best equipment possible under the best conditions possible in order to make the best shot possible.
A small shudder of anticipation interrupts my concentration; it passes.
I briefly consider how much long-distance shooters need to know about physics, ballistics, and biology. Marksmanship is about discipline; it’s also sensual at some level. The rifle becomes an extension of the body, its contours and heft as familiar as those of a long-time lover.
I banish the thought, all thoughts, in fact. Everything disappears as I enter an almost Zen state. I’m there; the feeling is as natural to me as breathing. I count down—three, two, one—and pull the trigger.
The target falls; the small electronic score card beside me lights up. I remove my earphones and realize I’m not alone.
“Holy shit, ma’am, pardon my French.” The young corporal is staring at my score. I hastily reset the board to zero, but he’s already seen the number.
“Just a lucky shot,” I say with a smile and a shrug. He nods and moves away.
Brian has worked it out so I can practice at a range used by SIS operatives with military backgrounds, chiefly snipers and the like. We’ve concocted a reasonable cover story that fits nicely with my former service in the United States Armed Forces. I use British military equipment, which keeps me up to date on the latest available hardware.
Fortunately, the sight of a female military veteran at a rifle range is no longer unusual in 2012. I’m older than most, but that’s not what might cause me to stand out. As I routinely hit targets at 1500 meters and beyond, I worry about raising eyebrows. Today’s number was 1620, far above average for all but the most elite marksmen. I’m proud but also nervous about being noticed.
I never enjoyed killing. Never. I managed to go numb when human targets were involved. I knew I was proficient; otherwise, Victor Kemp would have disposed of me early on. I never thought about how accurately I shot or how far the bullet went, because I’d have to think about what damage it did to the person I killed.
I love to shoot, though. Skill or sport, recreation or release; it doesn’t matter. I picked up my first long gun when I joined the Army and felt as if I’d discovered a part of myself. Only later did I learn that my skills had a genetic component.
My maternal grandfather was an engineer. Not just any engineer: Sandor David Brooks made his fortune as the lead designer of a self-propelled artillery vehicle. The invention likely changed the course of history. Grandpa Sandy retired from the Army after his brief career as a decorated WWI sniper was cut short by a mishap at a shooting range. He went on to accrue money and enjoy life before being felled by an aneurism while playing tennis just before he turned sixty-five.
This is the tale Lisette told me when we returned from Wales. It may have been apocryphal. She harbored a deep resentment of the parents who disowned her after she moved to the city and took up with a failed poet. The story seems logical, though, or at least as possible as anything else.
I return the gun to the supply room. Normally, I might stay just to listen to the other shooters talk shop, as it were. The technology is changing so rapidly; I’m trying to catch up and keep up. One aspect of all this fancy new equipment is that even an amateur can make a reasonably accurate shot. I find that to be a disturbing concept.
Today, I decide to leave. I don’t want to discuss my latest score with anyone. Yes, we’re all professionals; we’re all there to maintain our skills. Still, best to be circumspect.
I’m actually pursuing a long-time goal of mine: an 1800-meter shot. That’s about 2000 yards or just over a mile. Only a handful of men have hit that distance. To my knowledge, no women have. Not that a trained female asset would be public about chasing world records. Neither will I.
I can’t say why I’ve set this task for myself. I have no plans to shoot long-distance. I’ve considered competing but that’s down the road.
The British may be vigilant about gun control, but they still take their sport shooting very seriously. Gallery, bench rest, multi-position, long range, field target, precision, action: all manner of competitive shooting is supported by hundreds of clubs that welcome adults and juniors. Britain shows well at Olympic competitions and at other contests around the world.
At Michael’s urging, I’ve joined the Clay Pigeon Shooting Association. Application for membership has turned out to be less daunting than I feared. My son’s recommendation goes a long way. It helps that he specializes in double trap shooting and has done quite well at the amateur level. Math and marksmanship: those skills run in the family.
The idea of aiming at clay objects with a 12-gauge shotgun initially flummoxed me. Otherwise, it’s been a marvelous experience. I’m adept without being an expert. My former profession never once required me to shoot something out of the sky. The sensation is familiar, yet novel, like being a practiced water colorist who switches to oil painting.
Best of all, membership in any Home-office approved club qualifies the applicant under a blanket certificate. This means I don’t need to make an individual application and draw unwanted attention to myself.
After just three visits, a young instructor is on me to compete. He’s suggested I would “crush” the senior division. I can’t decide whether to be flattered, amused, or alarmed. I propose I train as an instructor instead, then immediately wish I hadn’t.
“Why not, Mum?” Michael asks. “You’d be brilliant at it.” Easy for him to say. Moving into his late twenties, my son grows more handsome and self-assured with each passing day. He knows exactly what he wants to do: finish his graduate studies, marry Kate, and study further in the exciting new field of cyber-engineering.
My future daughter-in-law is also quite the academic. After a post-university architecture internship, she’s back in school and nearly through a master’s program. After that, she’ll sit through a series of exams she’s required to pass before she obtains her professional license. The UK sets the bar high for would-be architects.
Tommy and Maggie and Brian and I joke about having such intelligent and expensively educated children. The truth is, we’re as proud as can be of both of them.
What most touches my heart about Kate is her combination of cheerful resolve and diplomatic skill. Michael tells me she handled some very difficult situations in Africa with grace and wit. I imagine more than a little danger was involved. No doubt she’ll handle her future mother-in-law with the same assurance. I look forward to it. In fact, we’re overdue for a girls’ lunch.
The wedding is set for spring. If we were hardheaded, we parents would insist our two children wait. Why bother? These two smart young people are clearly suited to each other. They’re also dedicated to their professional development. I don’t see them letting anything slip by. Besides, I find myself suffused with joy at the prospect of a happy event in the not too distant future.
Tommy and Maggie aren’t privy to all the details that led to our exile in Wales. They know we were in hiding from my former employer and that Interpol was watching him. They may suspect I got inadvertently caught up in criminal matters. They don’t know I worked as an assassin. Keeping that bit from them is critical as long as Tommy is in the House of Lords.
Besides, I don’t know how or when I could share that sort of information. Perhaps someday. They’ve become dear friends; we’re likely to become closer. For now, they don’t press. Tommy, whose brother committed suicide in 2002, insists life is to be lived in the present.
I must learn to do just that.
Now that I’m a bona fide member of a British shooting club, my son’s new in-laws will see me using a rifle at some point. Even if I’m new at this sort of shooting, my abilities will show. I once asked Michael if that would cause a problem. He gave me a peculiar look.
“With whom? I mean, it’s Great Britain. Sport shooting is as common as tea. Gun club members practice. Why wouldn’t you be proficient? You’re ex-Army. And let’s not forget, people over here assume all you Yanks are handy with guns.”
He cleared his throat. “Besides which, Kate is aware of your expertise with a rifle,” he said.
I forced myself not to react. I always promised not to interfere, to let Michael fill in his fiancée as he sees fit. It isn’t good to start off a life together with secrets. On the other hand, it’s my secret, isn’t it? Maybe not. Kate will be a member of our family soon. I'm not losing a son; I'm gaining a daughter.
I decided to look into becoming an instructor. To do so, I first had to qualify as a safety officer. I paid a £99 fee to attend a daylong course, passed a simple written exam, and demonstrated a working knowledge of firearms. I was older than my classmates but no one seemed to notice or care. I did meet a nice man in his forties who turned away from a middling career as an insurance agent in order to pursue a more interesting workaday. We both agreed mentoring young people and staying active are excellent reasons for becoming a teacher.
While he’s gone on to become a Level 1 Instructor, I’ve hung back. It isn’t the cost, although the £700 needed for the next step seems steep for the opportunity to keep busy. No, it’s this: as a club member, I’m covered by the club’s certification. Instructors, however, must obtain individual shotgun certificates. The idea of someone taking another run at my history gives me pause. I can’t help it.
True, anything might be doctored these days. On the other hand, what can be hidden can also be found. Michael thinks I’m being paranoid. I promise to reconsider after the wedding. I’ve decided I’d make a good instructor.
Meanwhile, I relish both my practice sessions. At the military range, I improve upon well-developed skills in long-range marksmanship. At the club, I keep my reflexes sharp by responding to targets that might be thrown at any number of angles, speeds, elevations, and distances. Most of all, I enjoy shooting for the sport of it, quite apart from notions of offense, defense, rights, privileges, obligations, or threats.
Except, perhaps, the threat of being outed as a former assassin.