8
Miranda and the rest of the team sat with their backs against the sunny side of the downed Thunderbolt’s fuselage and conferred over club sandwiches. None of them had had breakfast, so they’d decided on brunch after they’d spent a couple hours at the site.
The colonel had made a point of taking their orders, then shuttling back to base in the Huey helicopter to fetch it himself.
“Feels good,” Mike lay back against the A-10 with his hat brim pulled down far enough to hide his eyes.
“The desert down in Oz doesn’t get this kind of cold,” Holly’s hat was tipped back and her eyes were closed as her face turned to follow the sun.
Colonel Campos kept his silence.
Miranda slipped the weather meter out of her vest pocket. Sixty-nine degrees Fahrenheit against an average midday high of sixty
