PART 8
Hayes roared into the net.
“Move! Move! Move!”
The trapped units surged out by sections.
They pulled wounded.
Covered angles.
Dragged the living away from the dead.
By the time the sandstorm lifted enough for helicopters to move, the canyon floor was still burning.
But the blue icons were moving home.
All four hundred.
Not untouched.
Not unscarred.
But alive.
I climbed down after sunset.
Every step hurt.
My palms bled through the gloves.
My apron was still lying on the floor of my room, pretending the day could go back to what it had been.
It couldn’t.
When I reached the wire, Captain Miller was waiting.
So was half the base.
No one spoke at first.
Then Chief Hayes stepped forward.
He looked at the rifle on my back.
Then at my face.
“Callahan,” he said, voice rough, “I owe you four hundred breakfasts.”
I almost smiled.
“Start by not insulting the bacon.”
He gave a broken laugh.
Behind him, Walsh stood with one arm in a sling and blood dried on his collar.
The arrogance was gone.
War had scraped it clean.
He walked toward me slowly.
Every man on the yard watched.
“I called you lunch lady,” he said.
“You did.”
“I was wrong.”
“You were.”
His throat moved.
“What are you?”
Miller answered before I could.
“She is the reason you are breathing.”
Walsh looked down.
May you like
Then, in front of everyone, he saluted.
“Thank you, Riley.”
