— Action. Sustained over time. Mentor someone. Lift up the women coming behind me instead of creating obstacles. Use my position and authority to open doors rather than guard them.
Grace nodded slowly, something like hope flickering in her eyes.
— I can do that. I will do that. Starting immediately.
On the afternoon of the third day, Ryan Fletcher arrived at FOB Kandahar with eleven other members of SEAL Team 6. Grace was in her quarters reviewing maintenance reports when Morrison knocked with the distinctive three-wrap pattern they’d established.
— Ma’am. They’re here. Conference room in ten minutes.
She took a breath that felt insufficient for what was coming, straightened her flight suit with hands that wanted to tremble, and followed Morrison through the maze of containerized housing units and administrative buildings.
The conference room was larger than she’d expected—with a long table and enough chairs for twenty people. Inside, twelve men in desert camouflage utilities stood at rigid attention in a perfect formation that would have made any drill instructor weep with pride.
They looked hard in a way that went beyond physical conditioning. Scarred. Weathered. Carrying the indefinable quality that comes from surviving things designed to kill you. Four of them displayed visible injuries—bandaged arms, stitched facial lacerations, the careful movements of cracked ribs in the painful process of healing.
