Colonel Vance’s helicopter landed 30 minutes later. The rotors hadn’t even stopped spinning before he was striding across the tarmac toward where Grace sat on an equipment crate, drinking water Torres had brought her.
She started to stand, but Vance waved her down.
— Chief Whitaker… I owe you an apology as well. I overruled Harris based on procedure, not assessment. That could have cost 12 lives.
— Sir, you followed protocol. That’s your job.
— Protocol isn’t worth American lives.
He sat down on another crate—informal, peer-to-peer despite the rank difference.
— I’ve been reviewing your file. The unclassified parts, anyway. I have a question.
— Sir?
— Why contractor work? Why not instruct at Rucker? Or transition to test pilot school? With your record, you could write your own ticket.
Grace was quiet for a long moment.
— Sir… after I lost my crew, I needed distance. From special operations. From combat. From—she gestured vaguely—all of it.
— I understand.
He stood, extending his hand.
— But I want you to know—we have open positions. Instructor billets. Standardization pilots. If you ever want to come back… name your terms.
— Sir, I appreciate that. But I think I’m done with active duty.
