Chapter 14 - The Final Flyover Above Briarwood Ridge
Three weeks later, on a crisp Saturday morning, I was aboard a routine training flight aboard a C-130 Hercules transport aircraft returning from a tactical inspection in northern Wyoming.
The pilot adjusted our flight corridor, steering us along the eastern slopes of the Rockies, right above Douglas County and the pine-covered hills of Hamilton Ridge.
I stepped into the cockpit and stood behind the pilots, looking down through the panoramic front windscreen.
Below us, the Briarwood Mountain Resort sat quietly in the morning light. The golf course fairway where our Black Hawk had touched down weeks earlier was now just an ordinary patch of green grass surrounded by pine trees.
The glittering illusions of that reunion night felt a million miles away.
Down in the town below, people were waking up, drinking coffee, mowing their lawns, and living their quiet, everyday lives. Most of them would never know the names of the men and women sitting in underground bunkers or flying through the stratosphere to keep their world safe and secure.
And that was perfectly fine.
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We didn't do this for the applause. We didn't do it for the VIP tables, the crystal trophies, or the admiration of people who judged the world by the label on a dress.
We did it because someone had to stand on the wall. Someone had to hold the line.
