Hunter, Stephen (2009). I, Sniper. New York: Simon & Schuster/Pocket Books.
There is something godlike about the sniper’s work: blowing off somebody’s head from a thousand yards. The victim simply disintegrates without warning and nobody around has any clue of what just happened. That’s a lot of fun, if you appreciate the fantasy.
This sniper is Bobby Lee Swagger, ex-mil, now in his sixties and retired. Apparently he has featured in a long series of sniper books by this author, but I haven't ready any of them. As is the custom in these kinds of stories, he is called out of retirement by an FBI buddy to look into the recent deaths of four civilians, all former anti-war activists in the ‘70’s. The deaths were all by high precision sniper fire. The FBI has their perp, they believe, a famous military sniper who “snapped,” went on a killing spree, then shot himself. The evidence is voluminous and convincing. But Swagger is concerned that the case is “too good,” and he’s skeptical.
He follows his nose, and as he gets closer to the truth, he is thwarted by evil billionaire, T. T. Constable, a thinly disguised Ted Turner, whose ex-wife, Joan Flanders was a seventies anti-war radical (get it?). It’s one damn thing after another, through 500 pages of adventure, until the world is made right again. Along the way, Swagger demonstrates the skills of the sniper, his knowledge of firearms and everything related to firearms, and eventually has to go up against a team of other snipers hired by Constable in a sniper shootout. I especially liked the detailed description of a new, computerized, easy to use rifle scope, the iSniper (from Apple?)
That’s the fun of the novel, the technical details and the sniper procedures, apparently (how would I know?) all carefully researched. The characters are thin caricatures, except for Swagger, who does have some depth, in a clichéd sort of way. He is tough, expert, smart, and “too old for this shit.” He chases the baddy to the ends of the earth to satisfy his personal, vigilante sense of justice. He is not well-educated, uses lots of double negatives and has trouble making subjects and verbs agree, although his grammatical affliction fades in and out as needed. Most of the time he is perfectly articulate. So characterization is slightly better than in most thrillers, but not great.
The writing is very visual (the author was formerly a well-known film critic), and that makes the narrative crisp, especially around the technical stuff:
“The 150-grain Sirocco would be banned in land warfare because of course the point that kept it so accurate was only black polycarbonate and meant for streamline and accuracy, but it hid a hollow point and a lethally blossoming design. When it struck flesh, the polycarbonate tip was driven back into the bullet body itself, and that dynamic intrusion, plus the self-destructing design of the bullet, caused the missile, traveling through flesh at about 2,500 feet per second, to open like a flower, its petals yawing wide... They went through meat like a butcher’s keenest blade, opening a temporary cavity on the power of velocity that was the size of a football” (p. 485).
That’s a fine description of a technical event. “Polycarbonate” is a nice word. The writing is skillful. The imagery is clear. On the other hand, this sort of thing does get tedious over the course of 500 pages, and I found myself skipping over long sections of narrative description. I’m not a gun nut, myself. But I respect the skill of the writer. If only he could have put his obvious talent into more believable plotting, more thoughtful characterization, more lyrical language, and especially, a lot more editing.