Grace was already lining up the next pass.
— Razor 6, we’re suppressing mortar three. Get ready to move your wounded.
— Copy, Warthog. Standing by.
The third mortar position was dug in behind a berm, partially protected. Grace came in low—50 feet above the ground—flying straight at it in what Morrison recognized as a gun run from hell, a maneuver that required nerves of absolute steel.
The GAU-8 roared again, shells walking across the berm, chewing through earth and flesh and metal. The mortar tube flew into the air, spinning—a man’s body still clinging to it before gravity took over.
Morrison’s heart hammered. He’d seen close air support before. Hundreds of missions. But this was different. This was art. This was someone who didn’t just fly the aircraft, but inhabited it. Thought through it. Made it an extension of their will.
— Whitaker, he said quietly. Who are you?
She didn’t answer.
The second technical was moving, trying to reposition. She rolled, pulled hard, lined up.
— Guns.
The GAU-8 stitched a line of destruction across the vehicle and it erupted in flames.
— Razor 6, all mortar positions neutralized. Both technical vehicles destroyed. You’re clear for extract.
— Warthog… I don’t know who you are, but thank you.
