Grace shut down the engines, and in the sudden silence, Morrison popped the canopy. Hot air rushed in, carrying the smell of jet fuel and hydraulic fluid and the indefinable scent of an aircraft that had just been in combat: burnt propellant, heated metal, adrenaline.
She climbed down the ladder slowly, her movements careful. Morrison followed.
When her boots hit the tarmac, Commander Harris stepped forward and saluted. Not the casual salute of routine military courtesy. The full formal salute of respect—rendered to a superior, held until returned.
His hand was rock steady. His eyes locked forward.
Grace hesitated for just a fraction of a second. Then her hand came up, returning the salute with the same precision.
Harris dropped his hand and extended it for a handshake.
— Chief Whitaker… I apologize. I didn’t know. I should have trusted your assessment. I was wrong.
Grace shook his hand.
— Sir, you made the right call with the information you had. No apology necessary.
But Harris wasn’t done.
— I was dismissive. Condescending. I let assumptions override judgment. That’s on me, and I own it.
Captain Mitchell stepped forward next, removing his sunglasses. Up close, Morrison could see his hands shaking.
— Ma’am… Chief… I was completely out of line. What I said was inexcusable. I’m sorry.
Grace looked at him. Really looked. And Mitchell felt like he was being measured and found wanting.
