Long Range (Joe Pickett Book 20)(34)
Most of the ultra-long-range rifles Joe had seen in hunting camps were chambered for .300 Winchester Magnum, .338 Lapua, 7mm Magnum, or 6.5 Creedmoor Magnum cartridges. All of the rounds were close enough to the .30 caliber bullet that hit Sue Hewitt that Sheriff Kapelow’s determination of the projectile was all but useless.
Factory or aftermarket suppressors mounted on the muzzles reduced recoil and muted the decibel level of the shot itself from 160 dB down to 120 dB. It was still loud—Joe scoffed when he saw a silencer used in a movie or television show that was whisper-soft—but it resulted in a crack that was below the 140 dB threshold that could result in hearing loss.
*
NATE WAS BREATHING hard as they approached the top of the hill. Because they’d had to skirt gnarled sagebrush all the way up, their route had been half-again more taxing than walking straight up the rise. Joe caught up with him and they summited the ridge side by side.
The folds of the terrain opened up before them all the way to the mountains. A herd of twenty pronghorn antelope had strategically selected the top of the ridge, where it was flat to mill around. The height afforded them clear views in every direction. When Joe and Nate appeared on the western rim, the herd scattered. The flat was littered with pronghorn excrement in pellet piles, and churned-up dirt where the animals had prepared the ground.
Nate paused on the top and turned on his heel.
“Yep, this is where they set up,” he said.
Joe walked cautiously along the rim, and within ten steps he found where the shooter had been. A slight depression that butted up against the lip of the ridge was long enough for a man to lie prone. Several flat rocks had been stacked on the end of it in the direction of the club, and a small ball cactus had been kicked loose to the side so the shooter wouldn’t have to make contact with it on the ground. The dried yellow grass was crushed in the hollow and he could make out two oblong depressions in the dirt where the toes of two boots had dug in.
Joe backed off a few feet and let his pack drop to the ground. As he did, Nate joined him.
“That’s where he shot from,” Nate said. “He used those rocks as a gun rest to elevate his aim, although he probably brought along some sandbags to further stabilize the rifle. He might have used a bipod.”
Joe agreed. He dropped to a knee so he could dig into his daypack for a bundle of wire flag markers. After determining the exact coordinates and photographing the crime scene—both accomplished with his phone—he’d mark it off with the flags so the very busy crime scene tech could find it.
Joe wasn’t really surprised that Nate had located the spot so quickly. His past experience certainly helped, but Nate also had a very rare ability: he was an intuitive shooter who didn’t need technology and optics to make a shot—even with his .454 revolver. Like the birds he flew, Nate interpreted variables for an accurate shot without instrumentation, and he rarely missed, even at a tremendous distance. When Joe asked how, Nate couldn’t explain his abilities other than to say that he could “see” wind speed and atmospheric pressure as long as he didn’t think too long and hard about it. Like a peregrine falcon who zeroed in on prey thousands of feet above the surface and tucked in its wings to begin a bullet-like drop, Nate said he had to make split-second decisions based on what he referred to as “informed instinct.”
“I’m not surprised there isn’t a spent casing on the ground,” Joe said. “The guy only fired once, so there was no need to eject it.”
“Either that, or his spotter picked it up,” Nate mused.
Joe froze. “Spotter?”
Nate nodded. “It’s just about impossible for most shooters to make a shot like this without a spotter. Even the best. That was my role on the team. The spotter is just as important as the guy who pulls the trigger, if not more so.”
“Really?”
“Sometimes I did it without a range finder,” Nate said.
“I’m not surprised.”
“But in reality, and on the battlefield, the spotter determines everything,” Nate said. “He’s the one with the laser optics and the computer readings. The shooter programs in what the spotter tells him. We’re talking wind speed—crosswinds, updrafts, downdrafts—settings, distance. Adjustments need to be made on the scope depending on the atmospheric pressure—how thick the air is. It’s the difference between shooting through water versus motor oil.”
Joe shook his head. “I never even considered two people.”
“Very few if any snipers could make this shot by themselves, and I doubt that’s what happened here.”
Joe placed the last of his flags in the ground. He removed his hat to wipe the sweat from his forehead.
Joe asked, “How long does it usually take for a high-tech range finder to determine the distance and all the variables for the shot?”
“On average, fifteen seconds.”
The distant Eagle Mountain Club undulated in waves of heat from the valley floor.
“Neither Sheriff Kapelow nor Judge Hewitt are going to like hearing this,” Joe said.
Then: “This changes everything.”
*
KAPELOW DIDN’T PICK UP and Joe’s call to him went straight to voicemail.
Looking out across the river valley at the Eagle Mountain Club, he said, “Sheriff, I think we’re looking for two suspects, not one. The shooter is in possession of an advanced long-range rifle. I’m standing twenty feet away from where I think the shot was fired and the location is secured for you and Norwood. We haven’t disturbed a thing and there may be tracks or forensic evidence up here. The GPS coordinates are . . .”