The convoy rolled down a steep concrete ramp into subterranean Hangar Eighteen, the heavy blast doors grinding shut behind them. Bright halogen lights hummed overhead, illuminating a pristine white hangar bay that smelled powerfully of hydraulic oil, sealant, and age.
In the center of the vast chamber sat a vintage aircraft shrouded beneath a massive, dusty green military parachute silk cover. Around the perimeter stood twenty armed security officers, accompanied by several elderly men wearing faded blue flight jackets adorned with test wings.
As the sedan came to a stop, the elderly men stepped forward in unison, forming a neat, military honor guard formation. Every single one of them was over eighty years old, yet they stood with their chins high and their shoulders squared.
Pauline stepped out into the chilly air of the underground hangar, her eyes sweeping across the faces of her former colleagues. She recognized Tom Miller, her former telemetry engineer, and Bob Henderson, the flight surgeon who had patched her broken ribs in 1978.
"Widow Six, welcome back to the flight line," an ancient, quavering voice echoed across the wide expanse of polished concrete floor. From behind the covered prototype emerged an old man seated in an electric wheelchair, his lap covered with a patched flight jacket.
Pauline walked slowly toward him, each step echoing against the high vaulted rafters like deliberate, slow rhythmic heartbeats of historical redemption. Arthur Pendelton looked up at her through thick spectacles, his lined face breaking into a radiant, tearful smile of profound relief.
"You're late for our debriefing, Sanders," Artie said, his voice cracking with emotion as he raised an arthritic, trembling right hand. Pauline bent down and wrapped her arms around his fragile shoulders, burying her face into the cold wool of his old flight coat.
"You stubborn old mule," Pauline whispered against his neck, hot tears spilling silently over the wrinkles of her weathered cheeks. "You were supposed to wait for my eject command before pulling the lower secondary ring on that experimental capsule seat."
"I knew if I waited, you'd try to glide that burning brick back to Groom Lake all by yourself," Artie replied, laughing softly. "I had to punch us out before you managed to crash us into the side of Bald Mountain trying to save the telemetry."
Mark and Chloe stood beside the open car doors, completely frozen by the sheer, unvarnished emotional gravity unfolding before their eyes. The young co-pilot felt impossibly small, a man who flew automated computers while these giants had hand-flown experimental rocket motors into vacuum.
