Grace banked the aircraft, leveling at 200 feet above ground level. The terrain below scrolled past—brown hills, scattered compounds, dry riverbeds catching the late sun. She flew with the landscape, using valleys for cover, maintaining a profile that civilian pilots would consider insanely dangerous and military pilots would recognize as advanced tactical flying.
Morrison couldn’t stay quiet any longer.
— Whitaker, what’s your actual background? And don’t give me the contractor line.
— I told you. Army Reserve.
— And I’m telling you, Army Reserve helicopter pilots don’t fly like this. He gestured at the terrain rushing past at 200 feet. That’s nap-of-the-earth flying. Special operations technique.
Grace adjusted trim, her touch feather-light.
— Sergeant, we have six minutes to the AO. I need you to pull up thermal imagery on that tablet in your left storage pocket. I want real-time updates on enemy positions.
Morrison found the tablet, but his eyes kept returning to that helmet bag. To those partial letters.
160th SOAR.
The most elite helicopter unit in the US military. The ones who flew Delta and SEALs into the most dangerous places on Earth. The ones who—
