Fire at will!” Soule called to the seven competitors lined up in prone positions on their shooting pads, each with their bolt action Remingtons pointed downrange. It was the class final exam, informally known as the elimination challenge.

Within slightly over a second there were seven sharp cracks, like a series of cherry bombs going off at someone’s July Fourth barbecue, followed a few seconds later by a second round, then a bit more spaced out, a final round, but all completed within thirty seconds.

They were sighting in at one-hundred yards on a twelve-inch square paper target with a dark outlined, nine-inch by seven-inch oval – that dimension because it was the rough equivalent of a head shot, the preferred objective for a designated marksman, as it was assumed their target would likely be wearing a bullet resistant vest.

The shooters all turned to their instructor standing a couple of yards behind the firing line looking through a tripod mounted high-power spotting scope. After a few seconds, he held up a hand and announced, “All hits. Good job, everyone!”

It meant all seven shooters had “passed” phase one of the exam.

Ro found the first round easy. A seasoned competitor, at age eleven she won her first youth division skeet shooting championship out at Witness Tree Rod and Gun Club, where her father was a member. Over the next decade competing and prevailing in a half dozen more shooting competitions with a shotgun and later a handgun. She did not enter for competition’s sake, though, but because she thought it would help make her a better cop, her never abandoned career ambition since the fifth grade.

They were firing .308 Winchester cartridges from a ten-round detachable magazine. The weapon was equipped with a bipod at the end of the fore stock, and a Leupold MK4 10x44mm scope, all the standard choice in law enforcement.

The shooters needed to pass two more phases to earn their Designated Marksman Certification. Each phase included three shots from a prone position to be executed within sixty seconds. The first phase, just completed, was at one-hundred-yards, the next was at two-hundred, and the third at three-hundred yards out. Any miss in those nine shots and you failed the exam.

The stanchion holding the downrange targets folded forward, revealing a second set of similar targets, now two football fields distant. Of course, the targets were noticeably smaller, producing nervous rustles as the shooters sought more comfortable aiming positions.

“Fire when ready,” Soule announced.

This round of twenty-one shots was even more scattered, as various shooters took more time to make sure of their aim, completing the round with twelve seconds to spare.

Remington 700s have a reputation for accuracy out to about five-hundred yards, so a two-hundred-yard shot was well within its, if not necessarily the shooter’s comfort zone.

A second “All hits” announcement produced several audible expressions of relief.

“You’re almost there, folks. Stay cool,” Soule urged.

When the third stanchion was raised, now at three-hundred yards, the targets looked like postage stamps held at arm’s length. While no one actually said, “Oh, shit,” it was clearly the prevailing mood.

Now things were becoming difficult. At three-hundred yards, even a small unnoticed puff of wind can deflect the bullet’s trajectory by an inch or so. If the shooter’s original aim was off even a little, it could result in a dreaded miss.

According to one of Soule’s previous morning lectures, ninety percent of law enforcement designated marksman engage targets at less than a hundred-and-fifty yards. Shots at two-hundred-fifty were rare but not unheard of; for a cop, a three-hundred-yard shot was awesome.

“Don’t forget your breathing,” their instructor reminded the group. During their practice rounds, it was emphasized over and over breathing was the secret to controlling your nerves.

“Fire when ready.”

A full three seconds passed before the first shot was fired, as they were now trying to be extra careful with their sighting.

This phase was completed with only two seconds to spare.

For the fifteen seconds it took Soule to check the targets through his scope, no one breathed.

His “All hits” announcement produced cheers and applause.

“Congratulations, you’ve passed your final exam! You all earned your Designated Marksman Certification,” Soule said. “Participation in the next phase, the Top Shooter Elimination Challenge, is optional, anyone who wishes to can stand down.”

Hudson, the combined emergency first responder from Michigan, and Unger, the JROTC advisor from Florida, both opened the bolts on their weapons, laid them on their sides, and pushed themselves up from the mats.

“I’m out,” Unger said, stalking from the firing line without another word.

“I can’t imagine I’ll ever need to worry about a four-hundred-yard shot,” Hudson said as he left.

“Ah, things do get interesting now,” Soule said to the remaining five shooters. “Look, let’s take a short break. Stand up and move around a little, work out the kinks.”

The elimination challenge used the same basic format as earlier, firing three rounds from the prone position, but now at the daunting distances of four-hundred, five-hundred, six-hundred-yards, and beyond if needed. Again, a single miss and you were bounced.

Returning to the firing line, the remaining shooters replaced their magazines with fresh ones and took their previous positions: Ro in position one; Kindhouse in position two; Dillon, in position three; Kapano in position five; Billings in position seven.

Pushing herself up to see over Kindhouse, Dillon flashed Ro a devilish smile and mouthed, “Not bad!”

Ro acknowledged with a casual left-handed salute.

At four-hundred yards, to the naked eye the targets now looked like tiny white dots. There were audibly expelled breaths of disbelief.

To aid the shooters, in the center of the stanchion holding the targets was a tall pole with a long yellow ribbon attached, like a few feet of the “Do not enter” tape around an accident or crime scene. It was intended to give a sense of both the direction and strength of any wind out on the range.

Contrary to what most hunters do, which is to close the eye not looking through the scope, they were told the opposite, “Keep both eyes open. You want a sense of the entire scene, not only the target.”

Ro slowed her breathing, steady and deep, then waited until the bottom end of the yellow ribbon was visible at the top of her scope, which meant there was very little wind. Feeling confident her scope was positioned on the upper center of the oval, she squeezed off her three shots in quick succession, but then needed to wait for more than half a minute for the remainder of the shooters, who were taking their time.

Unable to help herself, she wondered, Was that a mistake? Am I gonna be eliminated?

She was enough of a competitor, though mostly with herself, to not want to be knocked out in the first round.

The firing stopped. For nearly a half minute the shooters held their breath.

Then came the instructor’s dreaded announcement, “Miss on number seven.” Billings, the state trooper from Wyoming. It meant the remaining shooters would be Ro, Kindhouse, Dillon, and Kapano.

“Number seven, stand down,” Soule said.

Pushing himself up from the mat, Billings asked Soule, “Can you tell where my miss was?”

“You were about two inches wide to the right.”

Billings shook his head. “I’m pretty sure I hurried that last shot because I thought I was running out of time.” Giving himself a gentle slap on the forehead, he muttered, “Slow down dunderhead.” Then turning to the remaining shooters, added, “Good luck.”

Their next challenge was at five-hundred-yards, nearing the official effective range of their weapon. The quartet turned back to their positions, worked the bolts, and waited.

“Oh, God,” muttered Kapano looking downrange at the new stanchion. At five-hundred yards, even with their scopes, the targets looked tiny.

“Fire at will,” Soule said.

A total of twelve reports from the four remaining shooters were scattered all throughout the minute. In fact, Kapano’s last shot was on the exact moment Soule’s stopwatch hit the sixty second mark; the instructor let it pass.

The “All hits” verdict produced a series of overlapping comments: “Well done,” from Soule. “Hot damn,” from Kapano. Dillon looked over at Ro, waggled her eyebrows, and said, “We’re still in it. Not bad, huh?” Ro, knowing it was a comment on the fact that two females were in the finals, bobbed her head in agreement.

At six-hundred yards, Kindhouse missed. He didn’t even wait for Soule to give the “Stand down” order, just pushed up from the mat and left, not bothering to inquire about his miss. As he passed behind Ro, she thought he muttered something under his breath like, “You’ll have to do better.”

On the one hand, it could have been nothing more than a gentle self-rebuke for a missed shot, but on the other, given his secretive demeanor so far, it could suggest an anxiety he might not be ready for an already agreed upon mission – like what?

Only Ro, Kapano. and Dillon remained.

The next round of targets was at seven-hundred yards. Now, even the slightest breeze, the thickness of the air (humidity), and most of all, the relentless enemy of long-distance shooters, gravity, all came into play.

“Outstanding, no misses,” declared Soule. “You three are the cream of the crop.”

Kapano lowered his Remington to its side and shook his head. “I always figured I’d be lucky to qualify at three-hundred yards. But, more than twice that… Wow!”

Ro reached over and gave his right arm a squeeze. “You’re a good shooter, Kapano, don’t let anyone tell you differently.”

But his luck ran out at eight-hundred yards. Of the three, he was the only one with a miss.

Pushing himself partly up from the prone position, now crouching on his knees, he looked over at the two women to his right. “My wife is so gonna love it when I tell her you two outshot all the males in the group.”

“Are you saying she’s got a feminist streak?” Dillon asked.

Kapano laughed. “A mile wide.”

“Go, girl, go,” Dillon exclaimed.

Hoisting himself upright, he walked around behind Dillon and stepped into the slot between the two women emptied by Kindhouse. Dropping to one knee, he reached out with both hands and touched each woman on the shoulder, “Good shooting.”

As he backed away, Ro looked up. “Be safe out there.” It was a standard cop-to-cop farewell.

“You, too,” he said.

Dillon, also addressing him, said, “Girl’s rule!”

“They do today,” he agreed.