By Break of Day

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US Army Captain Kara Moretti sat in her coffin and flew. She had the best damn job in this woman’s Army. The boys from back in the neighborhood would crap a load in their pants if they could see her right now.
Her coffin—technically a GCS, ground control station—looked like a steel cargo container from the outside. Tucked away in the corner of the hangar deck of the supposedly retired helicopter carrier, USS Peleliu currently stationed off the coast of Turkey, it appeared wholly unremarkable. Which was awesome.
Inside, past the combination and biometric sensor locks, was a whole other world that bristled with the latest technology. It was her kingdom and she loved it. One side wall inside had a rack supporting a pair of white transit containers that actually did look like coffins, big ones. One was empty, but inside the other eight-meter-long white box rested a disassembled General Atomics MQ-1C Gray Eagle worth a cool thirty million.
As remotely piloted aircraft went, it was about the hottest RPA flying anywhere in the world. The one normally in the empty box—she’d named it Tosca after a not bright but very loyal opera heroine—was now climbing up into her sweet spot at the base of the stratosphere. Twenty-nine thousand feet up and looking down, that’s what she was good at—among so many other things. Tosca was a talented lady and Kara was the girl to fly her. She was the brains behind the RPA…or maybe the opera conductor…or… She’d think about that later.
At six miles up, the RPA would appear to be the same width as a single human hair held out at arm’s length. And not a thick hair like one of Kara’s own long brunette ones, but rather like a fine blond one that belonged to Justin Roberts—not that she’d notice such things, especially not on him—presently flying his helicopter at the other end of this exercise’s battlespace domain.
The orders for this training scenario had been simple: Show them what we can do, but not how we do it.
US Special Operations Forces held cooperative international trainings to serve one of two functions.
Usually it was to enhance an ally’s skill while scaring the pee out of a nearby enemy. Under those conditions, the SOF worked patiently to transfer knowledge and skills. They’d recently run a major exercise with the Polish JW Grom counterterrorism unit. The three-day simulated fast-response invasion had been staged close to the Ukrainian border to put Russia on notice that US and Polish forces were nearby and watching closely.
Other times—like this one—the goal was to humble the ally when they weren’t trying hard enough. Sharing borders with Syria, Iraq, and Iran, the Turkish forces should not be playing favorites. Despite that, their attitude was, We may hate the people doing the genocide and destabilizing the entire region, but we hate the people that they’re killing more. So we don’t see a thing.
It was worse than the neighborhood rivalries that used to sweep through Kara’s part of Brooklyn. Sometimes it was gangs, but sometimes it was way worse. She wasn’t in one of the Five Families but that didn’t mean she was stupid or something. The garbage cartel. The cheese cartel. Liquor cartel. Restaurants. The list went on, and that didn’t include the drugs, gambling, and prostitution. It was quieter now—the New York Mafia had mostly turned to the business of doing business—but that didn’t mean the past was forgotten or that flare-ups didn’t occur.
There were times when Kara wondered why she was out here fighting other people’s wars, and not being a Brooklyn cop like two of her brothers and Papa.
’Cause then you wouldn’t have the coolest job in the Army, that’s why.

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