The aristocratic British voice repeated, “Really, there is no pressure, Kyle. Just take your time, lad, and do it right.”

He brought his eye to the scope and clicked a button with his thumb. That activated a BA229 lithium battery and engaged the heads-up display, and the scope came alive with numbers that paraded in a steady, changing readout. The range to the target, measured in meters by an infrared laser, showed in the upper right-hand corner, while digits at the top left gave the wind compensation. Barometric pressure was in the lower right, and the bottom left figures summed up all of that and gave the exact setting to dial in the scope. The weapon was doing the algorithms that he normally would have had to do in his head.

“We will be videotaping this test,” Jeff said, rubbing his hands in anticipation.

It had taken a while for Kyle to become familiar with the moving avalanche of numbers, but with practice, they had become part of the background and did not distract from his concentration. He took a deep breath and steadied Excalibur in his left palm, exhaling slightly and tightening his finger on the trigger. He did not want to move in any way that might change his position. “I got it, Jeff. No pressure! Videotape! Now will you please be quiet?”

No pressure. Only that he was being watched by a line of venture capitalist vultures along the stern rail of the yacht with drinks in their hands and fat checkbooks in their pockets. If Swanson could make Excalibur sing today, they would invest millions of dollars and pounds with Jeff to build secret weapons with dream-world technology. Even so, Kyle thought, this was just dollars and cents. Pressure came in battle, when if you missed, your buddies died.

“I can’t believe I’m putting the future of my entire corporation in the hands of a bloody Marine,” Jeff complained.

“The SAS eats shit for breakfast,” Swanson growled. “Now shut the fuck up, get this tub steady, and drop the barrels.” He wiped the world from his mind and concentrated on the scope, settling into his personal cone of silence. Things slowed down, his senses increased, and background noises became whispers. He was becoming one with his rifle.