Your day’s work is over and you drive home through the drowsy warmth of a suburban evening, at peace. When people ask what you do, your lies are well polished, the practiced deceptions of a surrogate warrior.
You’re simultaneously on the front line and three thousand miles away, an invisible predator hanging over the battlefield like a charnel raven. As you seek out new targets, your practised hands flicker over the controls effortlessly, man and machine in harmonious alignment. Sometimes you wonder if those heat signatures, those IR outlines, had lives before you reduced them to ashes. But then the training takes over and you see only threats, tangos, bogies. It doesn’t keep you awake at nights. Not very often.