RainStorm

ghost? Picking up your quarry's sign like he's just a deer or
    something? Stalking him, or waiting in a hide, then blowing his
    brains out with Zen-like calm? You should hear the way the regulars
    will beg for your help when they've got a problem that only a
    sniper can solve, though. Then you're everybody's daddy. Of
    course, that's only until the problem's solved. Anyway, what snipers
    do, it all makes the hypocrites uncomfortable."
    I nodded. "I know."
    He nodded back. "I know you do. Truth is, partner, in a lot of
    ways, you act more like a sniper than I do. I don't know what kind
    of marksman you are, but you've got that habit of stillness about
    you. And you know -what it's like to hunt humans. You don't have
    a problem with it."
    There was a short stretch of silence, during which I considered
    his words. It wasn't the first time I'd been the recipient of that
    particular "praise," but I wanted to hear Dox's story, not tell him
    mine.
    After a moment, he said, "Anyway, yeah, the regular marines
    thought I was one of the sociopaths, and the snipers thought I was a
    freak. The fact that my scores were higher than theirs just pissed them
    off. Especially a certain officer. Now, all snipers get subjected to stress
    during training. When you're trying to shoot, the instructors will be
    screaming at you, or playing loud music they know you hate, or otherwise
    trying to fuck with you. That's all good, it produces dead shots
    and you better be able to deal with stress if you want your skills to
    work in the real world. But this guy kept doing more and more,
    'cause none of the shit he was coming up with was throwing me off.
    Finally he started 'accidentally jarring my rifle while he was screaming
    at me, and even though I could give a shit about the screaming,
    of course his bumping into my rifle was enough to throw off my
    shot. Well, the first time I didn't say anything. The second time I
    stood up and got in his face. Which is what that fuck was hoping for.
    He wrote in my fitness report that I had 'anger management' issues
    and in his opinion was 'temperamentally unsuited' to be a sniper.
    When I found out about that, I busted him up good."
    I nodded, thinking of how the young eager beaver CIA officer
    Holtzer had been in Vietnam had run a similar game with me, and
    how he had elicited a similarly stupid, albeit satisfying, reaction.
    Holtzer had gone on to become the CIA's Station Chief in Tokyo,
    and had carried a grudge all the way to the grave I finally sent him to.
    "They court-martial you?" I asked.
    He shook his head. "No, enough people knew this guy was an
    asshole so that someone pulled some strings and saved me from all
    that. But the fitness report was permanent, and my career wasn't
    going anywhere after all that. At least not until the Russians decided
    to try and swallow Afghanistan. Then Uncle Sam needed
    tainted people like me, and all was forgiven."
    "It always seemed like you had something to prove over there,"
    I said.
    He smiled. "Well yeah, I did. You know, I had a lot of personal
    kills in 'Stan--three of them at over a thousand yards. Not bad for
    someone 'temperamentally unsuited,' I'd say. Carlos Hathcock
    would have been proud."
    Carlos Hathcock was the most successful sniper ever, with ninety-three
    confirmed kills in Vietnam, one of them a twenty-five hundred-yard
    shot with a .50 caliber rifle, and maybe three times
    that many unconfirmed.
    "You know, I met Hathcock once," I said, thinking of what
    Dox had just said about my sniper's stillness. "In Vietnam. Before
    anyone knew who he was."
    "No! You met the man?"
    I nodded.
    "Well, what did he say to you?"
    I shrugged. "Not much. He was sitting by himself at a table in a
    bar in Saigon. The only empty seat was at the table, so I took it. We
    just introduced ourselves, really, that was all. I had a beer and left. I
    don't think we exchanged more than a couple dozen words."
    "No? He didn't say anything to you?"
    I was quiet for a moment, remembering. "When I left, he told
    me I should be a sniper."
    "Damn, man, he saw your soul. That's like being blessed by the
    Pope."
    I didn't say anything. My army fitness reports; the darkly humorous
    observations of my blood brother, Crazy Jake; that parting comment
    from Hathcock; now Dox's thoughts, too. I wished I could just
    accept their collective judgment, accept what I am. Accept it, hell. I
    wished I could fucking embrace it. Other people seemed able to.
    We were quiet for a few moments. I