— Those men owe you their lives. They have families waiting at home who owe you their husbands, their fathers, their sons. Let them say thank you in person. Let them have closure on what happened out there.
She wanted to argue. Wanted to retreat into the comfortable anonymity she’d cultivated for a decade. But Morrison’s eyes held something that stopped her—understanding born from his own experience with gratitude and debt and the complex emotions that survive combat.
— Okay. Tomorrow at 1400.
— Good. And Chief… they’re bringing something for you. Fletcher wouldn’t tell me what, but he said it was important. Said it was something they don’t give lightly.
After Morrison left, Grace spent the morning in meetings she hadn’t anticipated and didn’t particularly want. Major Bradford summoned her to the pilot briefing room where he spent ninety minutes debriefing her mission with the intensity of someone studying a master class. He pulled up gun camera footage, freeze-framed critical moments, asked technical questions that demonstrated his own deep expertise.
— This pass here, he said, pointing to a frame showing her A-10 at what couldn’t have been more than fifty feet above ground. That’s either brilliance or insanity. Maybe both. I’ve seen pilots with three thousand combat hours who wouldn’t attempt that approach.
