The briefing admiral stands proud and grave.
On the screen within the screen tracers burst like silent lightning across the dark distant sky of the enemy.
There, it is night.
The assets of the enemy have been seriously degraded, the admiral reports. He has time for questions, though some he chooses not to answer. He relishes his prominence; modestly he couches the assault in terms of a resolution, a coalition, a common aim.
But he knows we know he means America.
Brave reporters on the scene describe blackouts, empty streets, yet unexplained explosions.
We fear a little for their safety.
Missile after million-dollar missile; thug-seeking miracles!
The righteous smite.
The evildoer trembles. Somewhere he hides.
Though knowing the story the next seven years might tell, again we watch with giddy awe.
There is no moral equivalent to this.
Will this finally be our perfect war?