26. Thea
TWENTY-SIX
THEA
The transition from the warmth of the Adams kitchen to the cold reality of the south pasture took less than sixty minutes. The anniversary party had been replaced by the high-pitched whine of turbine engines and the rhythmic clatter of gear being stowed.
The teams were on joint transport orders back to the East Coast hub.
While the SEALs would be dropping at Little Creek to refit for the Philippine Sea, Wyatt was hitching the ride to rejoin his own Air Force unit at Langley.
The two bases were barely thirty minutes apart, and Commander Bennett had already cleared the priority-one transit with the Air Force Chief of Staff.
Wyatt stood at the edge of the ramp, acting as the final checkpoint for the gear.
He was no longer the little brother hiding in the mudroom or fixing a washing machine; he was an Air Force PJ with his helmet tucked under his arm.
He glanced toward the porch where his parents stood, and for a heartbeat, the “ranch boy” flickered in his eyes.
Then, with a smirky grin, he gave a casual wave and called out softly, “Love you, Mom.”
Reef was already strapped into a jump seat, his eyes fixed on the horizon, his jaw set in a way that told Thea he was already hunting. Falcon, despite his sling, was helping Hurricane secure the last of the Pelican cases. He paused when he saw Thea, giving her a slow, respectful nod.
“See you on the next grid, Doc,” Falcon said, his voice raspy but warm. “And thanks for the shoulder.”
Then there was Ben.
He walked over, his boots crunching on the resilient Wyoming grass. He didn’t say anything at first, just reached out and framed her face with his hands. The morning sun caught the gray dust still clinging to his hair, her Armor.
“The Atlantic is heading to Little Creek to gear up,” Ben said, his voice dropping into that private rumble meant only for her. “We meet Wolf’s team in the Philippine Sea in forty-eight hours.”
Thea leaned into his touch, her eyes tracing every line of his face. She wanted to run the percentages of him coming back, but for the first time, her brain refused to provide the numbers. The variables were too high. The ocean was too deep.
“I’m heading back to the Stone Ribs this afternoon,” she whispered. “The Park Service needs the final seismic logs.”
Ben nodded. “I know. You stay at your post, Doc. You keep this mountain quiet.”
He pulled a small object from his pocket, the spent brass casing from the shooting range. He pressed it into her palm and closed her fingers over it.
“Fourteen years ago, I carried this as a reminder of what I was leaving behind,” Ben said. “Now, I want you to hold onto it. It’s a placeholder.”
Thea looked at the brass, then back at him. “For how long?”
“Thanksgiving,” Ben promised. He leaned his forehead against hers, the vibration of the helicopter humming through both of them. “I am coming back to this ranch for my mother’s turkey and your data points. Thanksgiving is the new clock.”
Thea took a shaky breath, her fingers tightening around the warm metal. “Data point: That is seventy-two days from now, Benji. I’ve never counted that high.”
“Start now,” he whispered.
He captured her lips in a kiss that was fast, fierce, and tasted of salt and desperation. It was a soldier’s goodbye, a promise made in the shadow of a departing flight.
When he pulled back, he didn’t look back. He grabbed the handle of the bay door and hauled himself up into the bird, taking his place next to Reef. Wyatt was the last one up, giving his mom a final thumbs-up before the ramp hissed shut.
Picasso gave the signal. The rotors bit into the air, creating a gale that flattened the grass.
Below, on the porch, the entire Adams family was gathered in a solid wall of ranch-bred grit and unshakable unity.
A few neighbors had also stopped by, lending quiet support as they prepared to see them off.
The Seahawk rose, banking hard toward the east. Thea stood her ground in the downwash, her eyes fixed on the matte-black silhouette until it disappeared into the golden haze of the Wyoming morning.
She was alone in the pasture, but for the first time in her life, the silence didn’t feel like a void.
Data point, she thought, her thumb brushing the brass casing in her hand. The subduction zones are shifting. The war didn’t end; it just changed its coordinates.
She turned back toward the house. The mountain was at rest. The war had moved to the water.