Morrison turned to Harris.
— Sir, I volunteer as back-seat observer. If Whitaker’s not qualified, I’ll take the controls mid-flight. But we need to move now.
Harris looked at the clock. 1704 hours. He looked at the radio, still broadcasting desperate gunfire. He looked at Grace, who stood with the stillness of someone who’d made peace with whatever came next.
— Whitaker, you get one chance. Morrison, you’re her observer. If she can’t handle it, you abort and RTB immediately. Clear?
— Crystal, sir.
— Then get to that bird. Wheels up in five.
Major Reed grabbed Harris’s arm.
— This is insane. Her record says she’s former Army Reserve—basic helicopter pilot. Administrative flights. Nothing like—
— I don’t care if her record says she learned to fly last week. Harris snapped. Those men are dying. Move, Whitaker.
Grace was already heading for the door. Her movements efficient and unhurried. Morrison fell in beside her. Torres led the way toward the flight line.
