Stone grinned despite the tension.
— Too late, ma’am. You’re legendary now. At least on this FOB. Probably on every FOB in theater by the end of the week.
After breakfast, Grace made her way to the flight line to check on her A-10. The morning heat was building—that peculiar Afghan heat that seemed to press down from above while simultaneously radiating up from below.
Torres and his maintenance crew were deep into repairs—access panels open like surgical incisions, tools scattered in organized chaos across mobile workbenches. Torres saw her approach and climbed down from the wing, wiping hydraulic fluid from his hands with a red shop rag.
— Morning, Chief. We’re about six hours from having her green status again. That fuel cell self-seal held—brilliant engineering on these birds—but we’re replacing it anyway. New hydraulic line. Complete patchwork on both stabilizers. Full systems diagnostic. Replacing fourteen rivets that showed stress from the combat maneuvers.
He handed her a detailed damage assessment report.
— Could have been so much worse.
Grace scanned the report with the eye of someone who could read aircraft damage the way doctors read X-rays—noting bullet entry and exit points, measuring angles, reconstructing the entire engagement in her mind like watching a film in reverse.
— The DShK gunner on that second technical was tracking well. Better than average. He compensated for our maneuvers faster than most enemy gunners I’ve encountered. Professional training, not militia.
