I woke up in the middle of the night feeling itchy all over; looking at the clock, it was 0330. The sheets became uncomfortable, as did my clothes so I got out of them. I could feel the shift coming. Closing my eyes, I went to that spot in my mind that my wolf and I used to meet. I stood there in the dark space, feeling her approach as a black panther padded silently towards me. She was just a little more prominent in her spotted pattern that Ker had been, but no less beautiful. She was strong, agile and absolutely deadly, and I was in love with my cat at first look.
I opened my arms to her and she sat down, placing her head on my shoulder as we bonded. Her instincts were similar, yet different from that of my wolf and that was all right. I opened my memories to her; my parents, my wolf, the revenge I had undertaken and the memories of my mate and my children. I held her tight as she took in what she had missed in my life; sometimes growling, sometimes purring, even a few coughs in there as she laughed. “Come on,” I said when she had caught up. “Why don’t you take over and run?”
“You sure,” she said in my mind? I hugged her and stepped back, and she walked forward as I sat down. When I opened my eyes again, I was in cat form on my bed. We quickly learned to share, and I mentally smacked myself for not opening the bedroom door first. I reached out in my mind, showing the cat how to grab the knob in her teeth and rotate her head until it pulled open. We padded silently through the dark hallway until we reached the sliding glass door. I smacked the lock open then used a paw to pull it open. I trotted out into the yard, stretching and rolling on the grass as I looked up at the stars above.
I yawned, then let out a roar before leaping into the woods behind the house. I was loving my cat eyes; they were more light-sensitive than the wolf eyes I had before, since panthers often hunted by moonlight or in dark jungles. Everything felt looser as a cat, the gait was smooth and silent. I loved the feel of her, I loved having the animal back in my head, I loved my enhanced strength and senses. I ran through the trees, just enjoying my freedom and my beast.
When I caught the smell of deer, I froze. Raising my nose, I scented three of them below me near a swampy area. I circled until I was directly downwind of them, then started to stalk. My cat’s instincts guided the hunt as I moved silently through the trees and shrubs towards them. I was silent death. When I was within ten yards, I waited until the doe looked away from me to nibble on a bush and leaped forward.
With a couple quick steps and a powerful bound, I crashed down on the doe and caught her neck just above the body in my teeth. My weight knocked her over and my powerful neck muscles twisted, causing a loud snap to echo through the forest. I sat up, face bloody and the metallic warm taste on my tongue, and thought this was one of the best moments of my life. I raised my head and roared to the moon, then tore into my breakfast with gusto.
I had just pulled out the liver and gulped it down in a single bite when I heard a low growl from behind me. I spun around, my front left paw on my kill, and saw the panther approaching slowly. She sat, her head moving to the side, and I gave a quiet cough and moved over. She moved up to me, licking the blood off my face then dug into the stomach cavity and started to eat.
We ate our fill, then headed back towards the house. The morning run was forgotten as we showered and collapsed back on our beds, our bellies distended with fresh meat.
(Seven weeks later)
I settled in behind the rifle, making myself as low as possible. The rifle stock sat on the trunk of a pine tree which had blown down in a storm. I was using the log for cover; my head covered with a camouflage hat, paint on my face, and a ghillie suit around my body. The burlap strips of the suit were woven with bits of grasses and ground covers in the area; it broke up my form and made me nearly invisible. If I did it right, the instructors wouldn’t be able to see me even if they were looking right at me with binoculars. And the instructors were looking, hard. If they saw me before I took my shot, I had to pay their bar bill. Again.
They were Marines, the first four times hadn’t been cheap.
They were in a covered observation point six hundred and twenty yards away, slightly downhill. Four of them were using binoculars and spotting scopes to look for any movement or anything out of place; if they spotted something, they would radio an instructor in the field and use voice directions to move him to what they suspected was me. So far, they hadn’t come close, sending them to seven false alarms already.
It had taken me four hours to move into this position. Starting two miles away, I had crawled down the hill, moving with the wind and changing the vegetation twice to match the surroundings. Sometimes it was only a few inches as a time, moving forward then waiting to move again. I had come to rely on my cat’s instinct for stalking; she seemed to understand when to freeze and when to move. The instructors, who didn’t know my true nature, were shocked at how quickly I had picked up what they spend months teaching to their snipers.
I used my laser rangefinder, the steel plate cut into the head and torso was seven hundred and eighty-seven yards away. I consulted the portable ballistics computer; feeding in the distance and estimating it was twenty yards below my position, I followed it and raised my scope by twenty-two clicks from its previous position. I was watching the left-to-right breeze closely; I used the movement of the treetops, the grass and the shimmer of heat rising from the ground to estimate it at five miles per hour. I adjusted my scope accordingly, the conversions memorized during long study sessions and tested during long runs by the instructors.
You only had one chance to take a shot before you became the target. It had to count.
I focused on my breathing, taking slow and deep breaths to relax. My cheek was welded to the stock, my body making as many points of contact with the ground as possible to give a stable platform. I could see the crosshairs moving slightly with each heartbeat. I took a deep breath, and let it out halfway. Waiting until I was between heartbeats, my finger added a single ounce of pressure and the chain reaction started.
The competition-grade trigger on my Remington M40 rifle broke cleanly, releasing the firing pin forward and striking the primer. The chemicals in the primer ignited, starting a chemical reaction in the powder in the cartridge. The 168-grain hollow-point boat-tail match bullet fired down the long barrel, exiting at over three thousand feet per second. The recoil pushed into my shoulder, then the rifle returned to its previous position. I watched the vapor trail of the round as it traveled to the target, finally smacking it dead center in the chest with a loud CLANG.
Now the really fun part began. The shot had drawn the attention of every instructor to the direction I was in. I had chosen my firing position well, there was no cloud of dust from the expanding gases at the front of the barrel. I stayed perfectly still, trusting my skills, while my heart was beating out of my chest.
They had ten minutes to try and locate me or I would pass. They directed the instructors to two possible locations, neither that close, and finally the whistle blew. “TIME! SHOOTER RISE!” I moved up to my hands and knees, my sore muscles protesting before I stood up. I grinned as I saw the instructors shaking their heads. They would be buying my beer tonight, plus a big steak dinner, and it was going to taste good.
I safed my weapon, then took off the Ghillie suit and hat. On my fifth try, I had passed the test given to Scout Snipers after six months. I was congratulated, even hugged by some of the instructors as we walked back towards the classroom. Daytime stalk was the toughest test of all; in comparison, the marksmanship and night stalking was a breeze.
I needed to learn them all, because I would never know whether my target could be taken in light or dark. During the training, I had learned of the deeds of Marine Corps snipers like Carlos Hathcock, who waited three days in an open field to take a thousand-yard shot that killed a VC Colonel.
Patience was something my cat and I had in spades.
“You sure you don’t want to become a Marine, E?” I smiled at Gunnery Sgt. Rodriguez, the senior instructor. E was my codename during training. “You impressed the shit out of me today. You name is sure to come up in the future when some piss-ant corporal complains that he hasn’t had enough practice by the fifth month.”
“No, Sarge, I think I’m good. Besides, you know that Scout Sniper isn’t open to women. We’re too good.” The other instructors hooted it up.
“That’s big talk for a little lady,” he said. “Care to back that up with a bet?”
I nodded. “Sure, let’s play some HORSE. No computers, no rangefinders, no spotters. Loser walks back to their car naked.” If the catcalls and interest weren’t up to a fever pitch already, this bet put it to legendary status. One of us was going to be taking a long, embarrassing walk past the classrooms and barracks to our car, and it wasn’t going to be me. He ran ahead to his office to get his personal weapon, and I met him at the unlimited range.
The rules of the game are simple, just like if you are playing basketball. The shooting mats overlooked a long, shallow valley. Dozens of hanging steel silhouette targets were mounted in the ground, at ranges from just over a hundred yards to over a mile away, each with a 12″ diameter colored circle in the center of the chest. You picked a target, then a firing position; laying down (prone), sitting, kneeling or standing. Pick your shot and go first; if you hit, the other person then has to match the shot or they earn a letter.