It had been almost a week since we had arrived in Kittyhawk and Bomber and I were finally getting to work. Delta had worked hard the entire time directing the unloading of his lab equipment and spending many tedious hours filing away his research notes. The final component to be unloaded had been a tangled mass of cloth and wood and wire. It was beyond me as to what it could have possibly been. That night I was told to be on the airstrip, with my rifle, by six am the next morning.
Arriving at the airfield with rifle case in tow, I found Bomber and Delta waiting for me next to an alien looking contraption. Constructed of wood and cloth, it had wings that looked like bat wings, with five ribs and a jointed arm stretching the fabric taut across the frame. Stretching out behind it was a long bare frame, ending in more fabric fins, presumably the tail. An empty seat was nestled into the middle of it all.
“Well what do you think?” Delta spoke up as I approached.
“I think I’ve never seen anything like it,” I stated matter of factly, it was true.
Delta chuckled, “I can understand how that would be true. I know you’re curious as to why you’re even here, and I bet you’re wondering even more why I had you bring your rifle,” it was a statement, not a question, and I nodded my head in agreement.
“I’ve mentioned several times before that your talent extends beyond ‘just rifle shooting’.” I nodded again, “from what I understand, you can read the imperceptible changes in the wind, predict how much each individual bullet will drop, and determine how the slightest changes in everything from air pressure to humidity will affect the flight of your slug.”
“If you say so,” I said, unsure about all of this.
“To help you become aware of this, we’ve set up an exercise with a few of the marksponies stationed here. If you’ll follow me,” with that he turned and Bomber and I followed along in silence. Bomber seemed different, stiff and precise, compared to her usual pranking and joking. Sometimes it was hard to remember that she had been RAG special forces.
We arrived at some cliffs where five ponies in military garb stood waiting. They each carried sniper rifles, four held Remington 700’s chambered in .308, and the last, a grizzled old veteran, held a Barrett M95 .50 cal. anti-material rifle. I cocked an eyebrow as I inspected each of them for signs of wear, anything I might exploit. I was out classed and out of luck. Each firearm was in pristine condition, as they should be.
“Alright,” Delta started, “We’re going to have a little precision shooting match. The kicker is that it will be through these cliffs, which have the worst wind gusts anywhere around.”
“You realize I’m outmatched in bullet velocity and range don’t you?” I cut in, feeling a little frustrated and that I was trying to be set up to fail.
“It won’t be measured who shoots the farthest fastest, it’s just who hits it,” Delta explained, “First you’ll go against the Corporals, and then the Sergeant.”
The four ponies toting the 700’s stepped forward. I unslung my rifle case and opened the end gently sliding my Sharps out butt first. It seemed antiquated by comparison. I heard one of the Corporals snort as I brought it out in full view.
“Hold your tongue, Corporal!” the Sergeant barked, “or would you like to make fifty laps of the base?” Silence followed, “That’s what I thought.”
We lined up shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the cliff.
“Alright, we’ll start with something easy,” Delta said, “three hundred yards out, there are five targets, orange shooting clays. Fire when ready.”
I located the clays on a small butte about three hundred yards distant, like he said. The wind was pretty unpredictable and could cause some serious bullet drift. Taking a deep breath, I lined up the shot and squeezed the trigger. A moment later, the orange clay at which i had been aiming, disintegrated into a pile of dust, the next four did as well.
“Well done everypony,” Delta congratulated us, “ your next target is at five hundred yards.”
The next five were placed at the bottom of the ravine, good for me as that eliminated most of the bullet drop, but the winds were stronger down low. We all lined up again, only this time, the four all fired before me. They stood waiting as I prepared to fire, this was the extreme limits of my rifle, so I had to take my time. Somepony snickered.
“Corporal Fleetfoot, step out and lay down your firearm!” the sergeant was barking at a blue pegasus. The Corporal obeyed, and stood stoic. “As you were please Mr. Crackshot,” the sergeant said turning to me.
I returned to the cliff edge and took aim again. Taking another deep breath, I squeezed the trigger again. A full second later, my clay exploded into dust.
The sergeant stepped forward, “Before we get started, Mr. Crackshot, would you be so kind as to allow me to borrow that beautiful rifle of yours to prove a point?”
Startled, I nodded and handed it over.
“Corporal, come here!” he barked, turning to the shamed pony, who snapped into position. “I want you to take this rifle,carefully or its your hide, and I want you to shoot the sapling on the butte at three hundred yards. Can you do that corporal!?”
“Sir! Yes, sir!” the corporal stepped to the edge, took aim, and fired. Nothing.
“Mr. Crackshot, would you be so kind as to tell us where the bullet went?”
“He hit the side of the butte, about a foot low and to the right of the tree,” I told him.
“And would you also be so kind as to inform my Corporal where he went wrong?”
“The .45-70 is a heavy round, a lot of stopping power, and a lot of drop. The wind is also gusting and you need to compensate for that,” it all came so simply to me.
“Would you like to use the Corporal’s rifle?”
“Sure,” I said. The Sergeant made the corporal retrieve his rifle and hand it to me.
“Choose a target and fire when ready,” the sergeant said.
“That rock that looks like a pear, ‘bout eight hundred yards distant,” I pointed it out as I unloaded the rifle. Everypony watched on, intrigued, as I rolled a few cartridges around in my hoof. “What’s this zeroed in at?” I asked, licking a bullet before chambering it.
“Three hundred yards, sir,” Fleetfoot answered. I nodded and shouldered the rifle. Breathing deeply, I steadied the unfamiliar firearm. I watched the wind closely, making note of it, and finally squeezed the trigger. The bullet pinged off of my targeted rock and sent it tumbling, it bounced off of more and more, causing a rockslide and the ravine was filled with dust.
Fleetfoot’s jaw hung open in astonishment, we traded rifles back.
“I hope this serves as a lesson to you all,” the sergeant said, “That there is always somepony better than you, and that your equipment does not make you better,” he turned to me and shook my hoof, “You are a better markspony than I, I feel no need to test you.” With that he turned and the rest followed, leaving Delta, Belle and I to ourselves.
“Well that didn’t go as planned,” Delta broke the silence.
“Yeah, but it was awesome!” Belle exclaimed. I nodded, putting my rifle away.
“I hope this was helpful though,” Delta said as we turned towards home.
“I think so, especially when I had to use someone else’s rifle, made me think harder. Now I think I know what you’re getting at.”
“About that,” Belle asked cutting in front of me as I walked, “why in Equestria, did you lick the bullet?”
I chuckled, “Oh that? No reason at all, just to make them wonder.”
Belle’s jaw dropped, “You can be a real prick, ya’know that?” she said falling into step beside us, “I like that.”
I smiled to myself. Life was going to be good here.