The flight back took 15 minutes. Morrison spent it in silence, processing, watching the woman in front of him fly with the casual competence of someone who’d forgotten more about aviation than most people would ever learn. Watching her hands make tiny corrections, maintaining perfect altitude and heading, conserving fuel, setting up for landing while simultaneously monitoring six different systems.
This wasn’t just a skilled pilot. This was someone for whom flying had become as natural as breathing.
— Tower, Warthog inbound for landing.
— Warthog, tower. You’re cleared straight in, runway 27. Wind calm.
— And Warthog? The whole base is waiting for you.
Grace said nothing to that.
They broke through the pattern, lined up on final approach. Morrison could see the flight line below—and his stomach tightened. It wasn’t just a few people. It was everyone. Hundreds of personnel lined up along the taxiway, standing at attention.
The A-10 touched down—that characteristic firm landing, roll-out smooth and controlled. Grace taxied toward the parking spot, and as they got closer, Morrison could see faces. Commander Harris at the front, standing rigid at attention. Major Reed beside him, face stricken. Captain Mitchell, Lieutenant Daniels, Captain Walsh, Lieutenant Stone—all of them at attention. The entire operations staff. The intel section. Maintenance crews. Admin personnel. Security forces. Medical staff.
Everyone who could walk had turned out.
