The man in the pale brown linen suit struts across the room. He scratches his head and lights a Marlboro cigarette.It is so warm he removes his jacket.He is surrounded by maps and charts and lines and screens. His job is statistical analysis, and he has an M.B.A. from Harvard and an undergraduate degree from MIT.
It is his job to figure out where the drones should strike to hit the intended target.
The enemy hides in underground tunnels near hospitals and schools. According to his boss there has been more than enough recent bad press.This is war.
It has been a nine hour day with no break except for a half hour lunch with lousy ham and cheese sandwiches. He hates that damn mineral water. He rubs his eyes that are red and ache from the bright florescent lights. His assistants never stop talking. They sound like barking dogs.
It is 8 PM.when he points to a dot on the screen.
A young man with manicured nails hits a button. He yawns.
On the other side of the world a five year old boy runs after a ball that rolls across the street. Drones have no sound. In an instant he is a mass of flesh and blood.
The man in the pale brown linen suit puts on his coat and walks out the door. He looks forward to a shot of bourbon with two ice cubes and a medium raw steak.