She was already climbing the ladder. Morrison following her up.
The back seat of an A-10 wasn’t designed for passengers. It was a training configuration—cramped and uncomfortable. But Morrison wedged himself in without complaint. He watched Grace settle into the front seat, watched her hands move over switches and controls with zero hesitation.
— Whitaker, he said over the intercom. What’s your actual background?
Her hands kept moving.
— Does it matter right now, Sergeant?
— Humor me.
— I’m a contractor. I fly cargo.
She flipped switches in sequence—a pattern Morrison didn’t recognize but sensed was exactly right.
— You’ll want to secure that harness tighter. This might get rough.
Morrison studied the back of her helmet, noticing for the first time a faded patch sewn onto her helmet bag in the cockpit pocket. Most of it was obscured, but he could make out partial letters: “160th.” The rest hidden by a fold.
His blood went cold.
160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment. Night Stalkers.
— Tower, this is Warthog requesting taxi clearance.
— Warthog, tower. You’re cleared taxi runway 27. Winds 260 at 12 knots.
Grace’s hand moved to the throttle. Not the uncertain touch of someone relearning a skill, but the reflexive confidence of someone who’d done this so many times it had become cellular.
The engines spooled up with their distinctive whine, and the A-10 began rolling.
Morrison keyed his mic to the FOB frequency.
— Operations, Morrison. We’re taxiing now.
— Copy that. Harris responded. Razor 6 just reported they’re down to one magazine per man. Whatever you’re going to do, do it fast.
