— Then stay on as contractor. But not cargo runs. I’m authorizing direct tasking for time-critical missions. You’d bypass normal approval chains. When something urgent comes up, you get the call.
He shook her hand.
— Think about it.
— I’ll think about it, sir.
The sun was setting over Kandahar, painting the mountains in shades of amber and purple. Grace sat alone in her quarters—a small containerized housing unit with a bunk, desk, and locker—staring at a photograph.
Eight people in flight suits, standing in front of a Black Hawk helicopter. Night Stalker wings on their chests. The photo was dated August 17, 2014.
Ten years ago. Almost exactly.
A knock on the door.
— Ma’am? It’s Morrison.
— Come in, Sergeant.
Morrison entered, closing the door behind him. He held two bottles of water, offered her one. She took it. He sat on the desk chair, giving her space.
— Can I ask what happened in 2014?
Grace looked at the photo for another long moment.
— Classified mission. Yemen. We were supposed to extract a high-value target from a compound. Intelligence was wrong. Place was three times more heavily defended than reported. We took fire on ingress. Lost our tail rotor. Had to put down hard.
