Valkyrie
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 1:The Weight of the Wind
The dust on the Kashuahara ranch was three years deep, fine as flour and hot as a skillet. It coated the sagebrush, powdered the flanks of the few remaining cattle, and settled in the deep, weary lines around Hiroshi Kashuahara’s eyes.
Hiroshi, Silver Star, Bronze Star with a V for Valor, and once the most feared sniper in his sector of Vietnam, one of many highly decorated Japanese veterans of Vietnam no longer saw the high peaks of the San Juan’s as a majestic backdrop. He saw them as a barrier, a wall holding back the rain and a silent witness to his slow, dignified defeat.
But he had an asset, a secret weapon: his granddaughter, Megumi.
Megumi was eight years old when the lessons truly began. Her grandfather didn’t teach her to hunt; he taught her to observe the world through the narrow lens of ultimate consequence.
The first rifle he gave her was a smooth, well-worn Marlin .22 caliber. It felt heavy in her small hands, but safe—her grandpa insisted on absolute safety before absolute accuracy. Their range was a natural bowl carved into the foothills, with targets cut from weathered plywood placed at 200 meters.
“The rifle is an extension of your body, Megumi,” Hiroshi said, his voice a low, gravelly whisper that never seemed to carry on the wind. “And your body is an extension of the mountain. You are not shooting at the target. You are holding the world still long enough for the bullet to arrive.”
The first and hardest lesson was stillness. She didn’t fire a single shot for the first week. She simply lay prone, watching the 200-meter target through the scope.
“Breathe,” he commanded. “Find your natural respiratory pause. Not empty, not full. Just the momentary, effortless suspension of life. That is when you fire. That is the moment of honest physics. Then, guiding her breathing, he said, “Here’s how you breathe before a shot: four counts in, hold two, four out, hold two. Then your body quiets. One more half breath out—pause—and fire between heartbeats. That’s how still you need to be.”
Her small chest rose and fell with discipline beyond her years. The first shot cracked and struck the lowest tin can. “Better than luck,” Hiroshi murmured. “You paid attention.”
He taught her the six points of contact: the butt firmly seated in the shoulder pocket, the cheek welded to the stock, the primary hand gently cradling the grip, the support hand bracing the fore-end, the elbow positioned correctly, and the toe of the boot lightly touching the ground. Every muscle, he explained, was a spring, and a sniper’s goal was to de-tension every single one of them.”
As the drought deepened, so did the training. By age ten, Megumi was not just shooting; she was collecting data. Hiroshi had her meticulously log every environmental factor before every shot.
“The bullet is dumb, Megumi. It only does what gravity, spin, and the atmosphere tell it to do. Your job is to be smarter than the air.”
He taught her to read the wind not by the flags he set up, but by the subtle, intuitive language of the high desert:
The silvery, shivering underside of the aspen leaves.
The way dust devils danced.
The angle of smoke from a tiny, controlled brush fire 400 meters out.
The thermal haze rising off the cracked, dark-red earth.
“Wind is never constant,” Hiroshi emphasized, pointing to a hawk circling lazily above a distant ridge. “It has speed, direction, and value. Learn to feel its weight against your skin, even when you can’t see the evidence. If you feel it on your right cheek, your bullet will drift left.”
The air itself became an enemy she had to predict. He taught her the formulas for Density Altitude (DA), explaining how temperature and humidity thin the air, reducing drag and making the bullet fly ‘flatter’ but also less predictably. The hotter the day, the higher the DA, the trickier the shot.
The physical demands were brutal. Long, weighted hikes into the high mountain wilderness were mandatory. She carried a pack loaded with half her body weight—not for strength, but for endurance.
“A sniper needs to be still for three days, then run ten kilometers, then be still again. Pain is a distraction, Megumi. Push past the distraction until your body is just a quiet vehicle for your eyes and your finger.”
By age thirteen, the Marlin was retired. She graduated to a 6.5 Creedmoor, a sleek, modern rifle designed for accuracy over long distances. Her grandfather adjusted the targets: 500 meters, then 800. The change in caliber brought new lessons: bullet drop (DOPE) and the science of maintaining a Data On Previous Engagements (DOPE) book.
The conversations between grandfather and granddaughter evolved, growing deeper with each passing season.
“Why don’t you compete, Papá” thirteen-year-old Megumi asked one evening as they cleaned their rifles on the kitchen table. Her mother, Midori, had long since stopped complaining about gun oil on her good tablecloth.
Hiroshi’s hands never stopped moving, his cleaning rod working through the barrel with practiced precision. “Competition is about beating other men. What I learned in Vietnam ... that was about staying alive.”
“What was it like? The war?”
The cleaning rod paused for just a moment. In the lamplight, Megumi could see the small scar that curved from her grandfather’s temple to his jaw — shrapnel from a mortar round outside Da Nang.
“Hot. Loud. Full of boys who thought they were men.” He resumed cleaning. “I was one of those boys, until the first time I had to take a shot that mattered.”
“Did you ... did you ever miss?”
“Once.” The word came out sharp as broken glass. “The miss haunts you more than the hits, child. Remember that.”
Megumi followed him up cold mountain ridges carrying her rifle and a pack loaded with stones. He called it “discipline made heavy.” Each climb tested lungs and resolve. “When your legs shake,” he told her, “keep breathing steady. Your heartbeat will try to rush you, but that’s when accuracy dies.”
She no longer just shot. She calculated. She adjusted the elevation turret for the drop, the windage turret for the crosswind, and she hit the 500-meter gong consistently. Clang. Clang. Clang. The sound was crisp, the only clean sound left on the dying ranch.
The final phase began at age fifteen. The ranch’s debt was now suffocating. Hiroshi had seen the recruiting advertisements—a substantial signing bonus for qualified, accurate long-distance shooters. Megumi wasn’t qualified; she was ludicrously overqualified.
She switched to the heavy, tactical precision of a Remington 700 Win Mag. The targets stretched out to 1200 meters, a staggering distance where the round spent over two seconds in flight. “This one’s for when the horizon still isn’t far enough,” he said. This was where she learned the ghost in the machine: the Coriolis Effect.
“At this range, the earth rotates under your bullet,” Hiroshi explained, sketching a diagram in the dirt. “If you shoot north, the earth moves right beneath the flight path. You must compensate to the left. It is infinitesimal, Megumi, but in the long run, infinitesimal means a miss.”
She incorporated the math into her routine, a quick correction based on latitude, target direction, and time of flight. It was cold, pure science, but she executed it with the primal grace of an artist.
Now sixteen, Megumi lay prone on the high ridge, looking down across the valley where the ranch lay cracked and exposed. The air was clear but the wind was tricky—a lazy, constant 8-mile-per-hour crosswind, but with subtle, invisible gusts spiking the velocity low to the ground. She felt it, a faint tickle on her earlobe.
Her grandfather, sitting silently beside her, nodded toward a new target: a steel plate, no larger than a dinner plate, placed at 1500 meters. A distance she had never attempted before, a shot that would take nearly three seconds to connect.
“The military contract is real, Megumi,” he murmured, breaking the silence. “The money is enough...
“It’s a clean shot, a good debt. But this is the final lesson: when not to take the shot.”
He didn’t mean technical difficulty. He meant moral clarity. If she pulled the trigger today, the rest of her life was decided.
She cycled the bolt of the Remington 700, chambering the .338 Winchester Magnum round. Her heart rate, through years of discipline, was 45 beats per minute. She settled into the pause between breaths. The crosswind correction was dialed in, the elevation set for drop, and the Coriolis adjustment was a minuscule, calculated displacement.
Her mother’s voice carried across the fields tinged with the same resignation that had colored most of their conversations since the bank notice arrived. The Kashuahara Ranch, 3,000 acres of rolling hills and stubborn dreams was bleeding money faster than a gut shot deer.
Cattle prices had plummeted. The drought had lasted two years longer than anyone predicted. And the bank wanted answers her family didn’t have.
Their family’s future was hemorrhaging. It was a greater force than any bullet. Her father’s hands, calloused from decades of work, looked smaller somehow when he folded them over foreclosure papers.
“The Army’s offering signing bonuses,” she’d said. “Special programs for shooters. Grandpa always said skill was currency. Maybe it’s time I spent some of mine.” Her father had stared at her across the oak table, his face unreadable. “Military service changes you,” he’d said. “Takes something from you, even when it gives something back.”
Megumi thought, “But watching the ranch die slowly was taking something, too.”
And so, days later she walked into the Elk Mountain high school gymnasium, the same place where she’d once given a valedictorian speech about chasing dreams. Now she approached the recruiter’s table, her folder of shooting records in hand. Sergeant First Class James Edwards stood behind a folding table covered with brochures and laptop computers, his army dress uniform crisp, despite the late spring heat. Edwards was perhaps thirty-five with the kind of controlled intensity that came from years of military precision. His presentation covered standard enlistment options, military occupational specialties, and educational benefits.
But when Megumi approached his table afterward, carrying a folder of her shooting records and competition scores, his entire demeanor shifted.
“These scores real?” Thompson asked scanning the documentation Megumi had compiled: “800 yard groups under two inches, consistent hits at 1,200 yards with hunting rifles. Wind compensation calculations at this level, every score is witnessed and documented,” Megumi replied. “I can demonstrate if necessary.”
Edwards’ eyes narrowed with professional interest. “Miss Kashuahara, how much do you know about military sniper programs?”
“I know they’re looking for exceptional marksmen with the mental discipline to perform under extreme pressure. I know the Army Marksmanship Unit represents the pinnacle of military shooting sports, and I know that specialized programs come with specialized compensation.”
“They also come with specialized risks,” Thompson said seriously.
“Sniper training isn’t summer camp. It’s designed to break people who think they’re tough enough to handle anything. The dropout rate exceeds 70%.”
Megumi met his gaze without flinching. “Sergeant, I’ve been supporting my family’s ranch since I was 12 years old. I put meat on our table through hunting since I was 14. I’ve won every shooting competition within 200 miles of here for the past three years. I don’t break easily.”
Edwards studied her for a long moment, taking in her steady hands, her direct eye contact, and the quiet confidence that radiated from her small frame. At 5’-2” and 110 pounds, Megumi Kashuahara didn’t look like the typical military recruit, but something in her bearing suggested depths that weren’t immediately visible.
“Tell you what,” Edwards said finally, “there’s a qualifying shoot happening at Fort Carson next week. Prospective candidates for advanced marksmanship programs. You show up with documented proof of your shooting abilities, pass the initial screening, and I’ll personally ensure your application gets serious consideration.”
“What’s the screening involve?”
“Standard marksmanship evaluation at distances up to 800 meters. Basic physical fitness requirements. Psychological evaluation to assess suitability for high stress military occupations.”
Edwards handed her a business card along with several recruitment packets. “Miss Kashuahara, I’ll be honest with you. In 15 years of recruiting, I’ve never seen civilian shooting scores like yours from someone your age.
“But military sniping is about more than accuracy. It’s about mental fortitude, emotional control, and the ability to make life or death decisions under extreme pressure.”
Megumi pocketed the business card and extended her hand for a firm handshake. “Sergeant Edwards, I appreciate your honesty, but I didn’t drive two hours to Latigo Falls to hear about why I might not qualify. I came here to find out how to enlist.”
As Megumi turned to leave, Thompson called after her. “One more thing, Kashuahara. Your grandfather was Hitoshi Kashuahara, served in Vietnam, correct?” Megumi stopped, surprised. “Yes, how did you know that?”
Edwards’ expression revealed nothing. “Just making conversation. Military families interest me.”
The drive back to the ranch gave Megumi three hours to contemplate the magnitude of what she was considering.
The Fort Harrison qualifying shoot took place on a gray Tuesday morning in early June with Megumi arriving before dawn to find twenty-three other candidates already assembling their equipment. The group was predominantly male, mostly college aged with several obvious military brats who carried themselves with inherited confidence. Megumi set up her shooting position methodically arranging her gear with the same careful attention to detail she’d applied to ranch work for years.
Her rifle was older than most of the competition’s equipment, the same Remington 700 she’d used for hunting, but she’d modified and tuned it until every component performed flawlessly.
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