— Razor 6, fall back to secondary position!
— Negative—wounded can’t move. We’re making our stand here.
The operations center erupted. Officers shouted over each other, calling for medevac, for artillery, for anything.
In the chaos, Grace remained still. Her eyes on that tactical display showing 12 American operators about to die.
Airman First Class Ivy Martinez, radio operator at her station in the corner, watched Grace with wide eyes. Something about this woman’s complete calm in the middle of pandemonium made her skin prickle.
Crew Chief Mason Torres appeared in the doorway, catching his breath.
— Sir, the A-10 is prepped. Full combat load. I can have her engines hot in four minutes if you give the word.
Mitchell whirled on him.
— Nobody gave authorization for—
— I did.
Master Sergeant Logan Morrison entered from the rear corridor, a weathered SEAL instructor built like a fire hydrant. His voice carried the weight of someone who’d seen too much combat to waste energy on theatrics.
— As ranking SEAL representative on this base, I’m advising that we launch any available asset. Those are my brothers on that radio.
Major Reed’s face flushed.
— You can’t just—
— Ma’am, I can. And I’m telling Commander Harris that if we don’t get air support over that valley in the next eight minutes, 12 SEALs die.
