Nobody noticed her at first because there were easier things to notice.
Two MH-60 helicopters sat with their panels open under the wash of industrial lights. A pallet of gear was spread across the concrete. A Navy captain from intelligence was arguing with a logistics officer over fuel windows. The operators of Red Squadron were moving in that familiar blur of confidence and profanity that belonged to elite men who had spent most of their adult lives being told they were the sharpest weapons in the room.
Then Chief Ty Rourke looked up, saw the woman in the corner, and grinned.
“Well,” he said, loud enough for half the hangar to hear, “either someone lost a professor, or the Pentagon finally sent us a therapist.”
A few of the guys laughed.
Not cruelly. Not yet. Just the easy laughter of men who assumed they were among themselves.
Nora didn’t react.
