Each of the three remaining contestants had twelve hours to complete the mission. Miller felt very confident as he located the target but as the day wore on and the sun rose higher and higher in the sky, the wind had died down so that none of the field grass was moving.
To get into a comfortable firing position to assure a kill, he needed to be no more than a mile from his objective. He was just a little over halfway when the air no longer rustled the tops of the weeds. Any movement he made would stand out immediately and he would be spotted. He slowly reached into one of his pockets and took out the small spotting scope. He could see the judges looking through powerful binoculars, trying to find them before they could get off a shot.
The four judges were sitting on a raised platform, under an awning. A large cooler sat on a table nearby. Miller licked his lips. His last drink of water had been warm and anything but refreshing. He took his knife from the sheath and a small orange from his side pocket. He sliced it in half and bit down on it slowly and sucked the juices down his throat. It was better than the water. Suddenly he heard shouting. He looked through the scope again and he could see the Judges all looking in his direction. How could they have spotted him? Did the movement of getting the orange out of his pocket give his position away? He watched as three men came running across the field. They had spread out and seemed to be coming straight for him. There was nothing he could do except lie still and hope they couldn’t find him.
He could hear them getting closer as they ran through the tall grass. He buried his face and waited. One man ran just to the right of him about five yards away, still going at a good pace. Another ran to his left, even closer. He could hear him talking into his walkie-talkie. All three went past him. He lay, frozen to the spot.
Something had sent them out here. A few minutes later he could hear them walking back his way. Again they walked past him and he slowly raised his head. Now there were three of them left. They had spotted candidate 24D. He was walking dejectedly between the men. He must have been coming in from the same direction but had somehow made a mistake.
Miller raised the scope to his eye and could see the judges all talking; none were looking through their binoculars. Now was his chance. He started slowly moving forward, keeping the spotters and 24D between him and the judges. He was able to travel almost five hundred yards before he felt he had pressed his luck as far as possible. Miller dropped down and looked through the scope. 24D was getting a big drink of water and the judges were starting to take up the hunt again.
The diversion had allowed him to get within 1200 meters of his target. He could make the shot from here but if he could get down to a 1000 meters he knew his chances would improve drastically. He could wait; time was now on his side.
He crept forward another fifty yards, inching his way along. He looked up and saw one of the men looking in his direction again. Had he pressed his luck too far? All four judges were now looking in his direction. It seemed like a lifetime before one by one they turned their attention elsewhere. He resolved himself not to move again until the wind picked up. He waited.
One hour passed then another before a slight breeze started to come down through the valley. Just a little more he thought and I could move. Within a few minutes, the wind had picked up sufficiently that he felt it was time.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he inched his way forward, timing his movements with the wind. He checked the distance, 1050 meters. The grass was starting to thin out. This is where he would have to take his shot from. He inched his Barrett M107 .50 Caliber rifle through the grass. Even with its 31 pounds of weight and almost 57 inch length, it was rock steady on the tripod. He flipped up the lenses cover on the Leupold 24X Mil dot fixed scope and focused on the target. The range finder said 1148.5 yards.
He made adjustments to the scope and took three deep breaths. On the third breath, he held it and slowly started squeezing the trigger. Slowly, slowly, slowly he reminded himself, keeping both eyes glued on the target. The deafening roar rolled through the valley and the target disappeared from the stand. He quickly lowered the gun, and slowly started backing up. As much as his brain said to hurry, this training said to move slowly.
The judges were looking frantically for some sign of where the shot came from. The hills surrounding the valley made the shot appear to come from all directions. He had done it, they would not locate him unless he did something stupid and that he was not about to do at this point.
He broke down the rifle and stored it in the drag bag. It could get dark now for all he cared. He noticed he wasn’t nearly as hot and uncomfortable as before.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
General Devin was sitting in his office going through the mail that was stacked on his desk. One was from the Government Accounting Office, the GAO. He opened it and quickly read through it. What the hell? They were going to try to do an audit on Nellis Gunnery Range and all operations under his control. He read it again with disbelief. No way was this going to happen. What went on in Area-51 was not about to poked and prodded by some meddling pencil pushing bureaucrat back in Washington.
His first reaction was to wad it up and throw in the trash. Doesn’t anyone in Washington have a lick of sense? If what they were spending the funds on was ever revealed our national security would be severely damaged. He sat seething for several seconds before he pulled the letter out of the trash and flattened it out on his desk.
He mentally went through his options. He could ignore the letter entirely. He could write or call them and explain why it was impossible to comply. Another option was to go to Washington and sit down with the director of the GAO and explain it in person.
His last option was to go to the President and let him call the dogs off. The problem with that is the President had only been in office for a short time and he doubted that he even knew what they did at Dreamland. Not only that, but what had carried him in to office was the promise of aggressive spending cuts and to balance the budget within the next four years. It was the key issue of the campaign and since taking the Oath of Office he had started to address those issues on a monthly basis.
Devin decided that for now he would do nothing, simply not respond and carry on as normal.
Three weeks later the Government Accounting Office called General Devin. Devin knew when the call came it would probably trigger a knockdown drag out fight with the bureaucrats in Washington. He was right.
“General Devin, my name is Adam Carter. I’m the director of GAO’s investigation department. We sent notification to your office asking for records of expenditures for operations under your command. To date we have not received any information. I was wondering if perhaps something happened and you did not receive our letter.”
“Mr. Carter. I did receive your letter but I seemed to have misplaced it. I was going to put it directly in the trash but somehow managed to retain it. It’s a tad crumpled but I suppose I could still use it to wipe my butt with,” the General growled.
“Sir. This is not a request. The GAO has the authority to investigate every military operation for accountability. You sir, are not exempt from that process.”
“Mr. Carter, maybe you don’t understand the nature of our work here. What we do is Ultra Top Secret. No one without authorization is allowed access to anything that goes on here. Now I would be happy to send you what we have on the Nellis Range but that is as far as it goes,” Devin replied.
“We deal in all areas that are budget items and yours is no different general. Everything we deal with is kept in the strictest confidentiality.”