The air in MEPS was thick and clinical, just like the waiting room of a hospital. Rome Angelo sat in a stiff-backed chair, his hands resting on his knees, his eyes fixed upon the dull linoleum floor.
(He was waiting for the bus. Today was the day for the pickup to RTC, as he already completed the ASVAB as well as the other physical/medical related checks.)
Around him, the faint murmurs of other recruits barely registered. Everything else faded into insignificance as his target became fixed on the image he had in his mind since he decided to enlist.
A figure of a shadow stood still and silent, shrouded by the darkness of a scope, awaiting the perfect shot. — It was pretty blatant what type of MOS he was gunning for.
Now the path after high school he chose wasn't by accident, nor a choice of no thought. Every step, every push-up, every early morning run had led him to this—to this building, to this moment. Rome could still feel the weight of his father's hand on his shoulder the day he'd told him that he wanted to be a sniper in the Navy, to serve with purpose and dignity. The thought of amassing up a Kill-Count to be up their with the names of Carlos Hathcock, Simo Häyhä;
(Though he wasn't a name known in the US Navy, The legend still stands in terms of pure-sniper marksmanship. As a fact stated by him, Discovered in his private war memoir. The kills he racked up was estimated to be around 505 in total....How many were actually confirmed? Guess we'll never know.)
Of course, Rome could not forget the legend himself— Chris Kyle.
In relation to all this, A flashback of himself as a kid occurred in his mind back to when he was a kid and was training with his father.
—— Flashback:
Before Rome had ever even held a weapon, his father taught him how to still his mind, regulate his breathing, and even his pulse. Countless hours were spent in the woods outside their home with Rome practicing moving quietly through the brush, emulating careful steps of a predator stalking its prey. His father walked several paces in front of him, stopping to listen, checking that Rome could move in complete silence. Something every sniper needed to learn.
The regime usually would start before dawn, just as the same time roosters were about to make noise to awaken everybody.
Lying on his stomach in the dewy grass, Rome's father handed him only the scope, not the rifle. His father addressed with a calm stoic tone, "Find your target."— Rome would learn to spot small objects hundreds of yards away and monitor small movement. Even a leaf fluttering in the air, a deer moving through the underbrush. His father stated: "A sniper's eyes had to be as keen as his aim". Being capable to discern the smallest detail against any backdrop.
Then there was the breathing exercises. Rome would do inhaling exercises, count to four, and then exhale just as slowly. His father had taught him to coordinate this with his imaginary shot so that he could squeeze the trigger during that still moment between breaths; during that moment, the body was at its steadiest. He had learned over time that he could slow down his breathing to almost nothing, slipping into a state of complete calm—steady hands, clear mind, a heartbeat barely noticeable. The shot was just the result of everything else.
Rome laughed under his breath while remembering those specific moments in his childhood. But he also gained another recollection of a lesson that he hated the most when he was young.
Patience.
He'd wait across from their house, on a small hill, with a BB-Gun slung over his shoulder. It only had one singular pellet inside it. Rome just waiting for that one perfect moment: a bird taking flight and filling the air, a rabbit leaping suddenly from the brush, even an instant when the sunlight would peak or crest over the horizon. He'd lie there, still and silent, and wait for hours upon hours. His father had told him, "Any fool can pull a trigger. The sniper's skill was knowing when." Rome learned that to wait wasn't passive; it was an active part of the shot. Patience, his father said, was the difference between an amateur and a marksman.
—— End of Flashback:
A job like this required more than skill; it needed discipline, patience, an understanding that every shot had meaning. He'd read about it, studied, even shoveled imaginary shots that he'd line up in his bedroom, but he knew the real thing would be so much harder. The Navy would take him— his steady hands, his sharp eyes— and hone them to something more deadly and precise.
"Rome Angelo?"
He was startled, surfacing from his reverie, and looked up. A stern-faced, tall officer clutched a clipboard, the impatience in his voice thinly veiled. Rome straightened, nodded, then rose to follow. The officer's gaze swept him perfunctorily before giving a curt nod of approval.
"Bus is ready," said the officer briskly. "Move out with the others. Next stop, RTC."
Rome nodded, shouldering his own bag to join the line of recruits moving toward the exit. It was done. It had really begun.
His mind flashed back to his vision of himself in the field as he walked down the corridors, past sterile offices and uniformed personnel. As much as that image had seemed part of him, as good as the weight of the imagined rifle felt in his hands, a faint shadow remained in his mind, a feeling he couldn't name. He pushed the thought aside; there was no room for doubt here, no room for anything but focus. Whatever the Navy had in store for him, he would meet head-on, as sure and steady as a bullet in flight.
Because Rome Angelo didn't miss. Not here, not ever.