Chapter 8 - The Pentagon Chopper Touches Down
By 1000 hours the following morning, the sun broke through the clouds over Fort Calder, bathing the rain-washed asphalt in bright, clean golden light.
The story of the rescue had spread through the barracks like wildfire. The six young soldiers couldn't stop talking about how the recovery truck had appeared out of the pitch-black storm like a miracle, guided by an impossible radio link from Headquarters.
Kincaid sat on the front steps of the Delta Company barracks, wrapped in a coarse wool blanket, a warm cup of coffee untouched between his trembling hands. His body ached in places he didn't know existed, but the ache inside his chest was worse. He felt hollowed out, stripped of every delusion he had ever held about himself.
Suddenly, the air began to vibrate with the deep, bone-rattling thump of heavy rotor blades.
Across the tarmac, two sleek, matte-black VH-60 White Hawk helicopters—the executive transport aircraft reserved exclusively for senior Department of Defense leadership—descended through the morning mist.
Every officer on base rushed out onto the parade field. Colonel Briggs stood at the position of attention, his uniform freshly pressed, but his hands were visibly shaking at his sides.
The side door of the lead White Hawk slid open.
Four security guards with suppressed carbines stepped out first, followed by a tall, imposing man in full dress greens. On his shoulders gleamed four silver stars.
It was General Marcus Vance—Chief of Staff of the Army, and the older brother of First Sergeant Hector Vance. Beside him walked Lieutenant General Richard Kincaid—Mason Kincaid’s father.
Mason felt his breath stop. He scrambled to his feet, letting the blanket drop into the dirt. His father had flown to Calder. His father was here.
Kincaid stumbled forward, hoping, in some desperate, childish corner of his mind, that his father had come to protect him, to pull strings and sweep yesterday's disasters under the rug.
"Father!" Mason called out, limping across the gravel.
General Richard Kincaid didn't even look at his son. His face was gray, his expression carved from stone. He walked right past Mason as if he were an invisible ghost, falling in step behind the four-star general.
The two flag officers marched past the assembled officers, past Colonel Briggs, and stopped directly in front of the base operations center.
The glass doors opened.
Avery Sloan walked out. She had showered and changed into a clean, pressed service uniform. Her hair was pulled back into that same practical knot. She still wore no rank insignia on her chest, but she carried a slim leather briefcase in her left hand.
General Marcus Vance, the highest-ranking officer in the United States Army, stopped three feet in front of Avery Sloan.
May you like
He brought his hand up to his cover and snapped the sharpest, most respectful salute any soldier on Fort Calder had ever witnessed in their lives.
"Doctor Sloan," General Vance said, his booming voice echoing across the parade deck so that every recruit, private, and captain heard every syllable. "On behalf of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the President, we thank you for completing the field evaluation of our operational integration protocol."
