Behind them, the operations center dissolved back into controlled chaos. Mitchell arguing. Reed protesting. Walsh pulling up weather data. Stone coordinating with ISAF.
The three of them—Grace, Morrison, and Torres—stepped into the brutal Afghan afternoon heat.
The A-10 Thunderbolt II sat on the tarmac, gray and ugly and beautiful. Its massive GAU-8 cannon jutting from the nose like a threat.
Torres had been prepping it. When Grace approached, his professional assessment kicked in. He handed her the pre-flight checklist.
She didn’t take it.
Her hands moved over the aircraft with practiced efficiency. Checking panel seams. Testing control surfaces. Examining weapons pylons.
Torres glanced at his watch. Standard pre-flight took twelve minutes. She was doing it in three.
— Crew chief, fuel status?
— 11,000 pounds, ma’am.
— Weapons load?
— 1,170 rounds 30-millimeter. Six AGM-65 Mavericks. Two LAU rocket pods. Full countermeasure suite.
Grace nodded, running her hand along the leading edge of the wing. Her fingers found a stress crack—barely visible—that the last inspection had missed.
— This needs to be logged. Not critical, but watch it.
Torres stared.
— How did you—
