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reading anything about a code name ‘Raven.’”
    “That’s right. You wouldn’t have,” Harv said. “We gave all of our recruits nicknames. The CIA teams were called Echo units, and the Contra teams were kilo units. But we found calling them K1, K2, K3, and so on was too impersonal. We spent five months with them.”
    “So Raven was a shooter, not a spotter?”
    “That’s right,” Nathan said. “And a good one. He had the gift. It’s hard to explain how some people just have what it takes to be shooters. I never doubted he’d make it through. He was in great condition, had all the physical prerequisites, and had a good mindset . . . Maybe a little too good.” Nathan looked at Harv, then said, “I can’t swear it happened, but when he made his first kill, his face lit with . . . I don’t know . . . exhilaration, I guess.”
    “The guy smiled,” Harv said. “There was no guessing about it. No one ever smiles. We’ve seen men become everything from withdrawn to physically ill over their first kill. This guy loved it.”
    “Harv and I don’t necessarily agree on this. It’s the Mona Lisa question—is she smiling or not?”
    “I know what I saw,” Harv said.
    “You’re saying he enjoyed it?”
    “In my opinion, he absolutely did.”
    “While you were flying out here, I reread many of your mission reports from pre-Nicaraguan ops, and it’s clear: you always expressed regret at the actual taking of a human life. You were damned good at your jobs, but you didn’t like pulling the trigger.”
    “Rebecca,” Nathan said, “we’re getting into personal introspection here that I’m uncomfortable talking about.”
    “Before Bill became an operations officer, he spent several years with the ATF as a special response team sniper.”
    Nathan raised a brow.
    “Two,” Bill said.
    Rebecca continued. “I also read your report on the emotional aspect of being a shooter.”
    “You’re talking about the second kill being the hardest?” Nathan asked.
    “You both agreed the second kill was more difficult, because it meant you were willing to do it again.”
    Nathan looked out his window before refocusing on Cantrell. “We can’t speak for anyone else, but that was true for us. Our first kill went by in a blur. It didn’t . . . I don’t know, seem real. It almost felt like we were acting in a play. It took us a few days to decompress and really think about what we’d done. When we went out for the second op, it felt different . . . like a job, I guess. Every sniper has to deal with the job in their own way. There’s no book to consult on the psychological impact of being a shooter. Is it cowardly to kill someone who has no clue he’s about to die? Is it fair? What is fair in war? Harv and I have talked about this at great length, and we’ve concluded that we saved American, coalition, and civilian lives. If a friendly position is being overrun and the commander on the ground calls in an airstrike, is that a cowardly act? In our opinion, it’s clearly not. That commander used an available asset to save the lives of his troops and hold his position. There’s an undeniable callousness associated with being a sniper, because it’s up close and personal through the scope. You just have to disconnect from it. Think of it like an emotion switch that you turn off and on like a light. To make a kill, you disengage by turning the switch off.”
    “It’s not unique to snipers,” Harv added. “Think about the crew of an Ohio: if they didn’t emotionally disengage, they’d never be able to launch their Tridents. The same thing applies to artillerymen, fighter pilots, you name it.”
    Bill nodded in agreement. It was clear he understood the concept.
    “Raven’s switch was always on, but he had no problem pulling the trigger.”
    “So why didn’t you wash Raven out?” Cantrell asked.
    Nathan looked out his window again. He’d been hoping she wouldn’t ask.
    “Look, I’m not trying to