Grace’s voice came over the intercom, and for the first time, Morrison heard something beneath the calm—not fear, but a kind of crystalline focus that he’d only heard before in the most experienced combat operators.
— Sergeant, when we arrive on station, I need you to spot targets and confirm my runs. Can you do that?
— I can.
— Good. Because this is going to get close.
The valley appeared ahead—a scar in the landscape. Morrison could see the collapsed compound, the heat signatures of the SEALs clustered inside. Surrounding them, concentric rings of hostile forces moving closer.
— Razor 6, Warthog has visual on your position. We’re starting our run.
Grace banked hard, lining up on the first mortar position. Morrison felt the G-forces push him into the seat. 6, 7 G’s. The kind of maneuvering that took both skill and physical conditioning to maintain. His vision tunneled slightly at the edges.
Grace’s breathing stayed even.
— Target locked. Guns hot.
