Target of One’s Own
Excerpt
The view was awesome from up here. To the far north, the mountains of the Hindu Kush were jagged ice points etched across the limits of the horizon. To the south, the arid wastelands of Pakistan.
At the New Year, all of the peaks were sheathed in layers of snow, only the valleys were barren. Scattered villages, even nomadic groups showed up as bright spots in her infrared vision, but with little of note in between. It looked like a half-finished artist’s painting—ever evolving, never complete. Midnight silence reigned, so near perfect that it echoed. She could almost smell the dry desert air—so clean and clear that it was like cool water on a hot day.
For now, she floated above it all like some disembodied alien: seeing but unseen. Her favorite state. As if
