Chapter 7
“It makes total sense,” Jake answered, looking each man squarely in the eyes. “We got sloppy. We thought we were too smart to follow rules, too funny to show respect, and too comfortable to do our jobs right.”
“We were just backing you up, man,” Evans muttered defensively, crossing his tattooed arms over his chest. “You were the one who walked over to her table and started doing stand-up comedy for everyone.”
“And I was wrong,” Jake said without hesitation, cutting through Evans’s excuse cleanly. “I acted like an arrogant fool, and you all cheered me on because it was easier to laugh than to act like professional Marines.”
The four men exchanged uneasy glances, recognizing the profound shift in Jake’s voice. The familiar playfulness was entirely gone, replaced by a cold, hardened determination that none of them had seen in him before.
“She wants every turbine inspected and re-certified by hand,” Henderson said quietly, reading the cover page of the manual. “Jake, there are over sixty ground power units scattered across the entire flight line.”
“Then we start right now,” Jake commanded, grabbing his cover from the coat rack. “Grab your tool rolls and technical manuals. We don’t leave this flight line until the first fifteen units are stripped down.”
The team moved out into the blinding midday glare, heading straight toward the rows of yellow ground support carts lined along the apron. Heat radiated from the tarmac, shimmering like liquid glass beneath their heavy boots.
Jake dropped to his knees beside the first unit, unlatching the heavy steel cowling to reveal the compact turboshaft engine inside. Grease and carbon coated the bypass ducts, showing months of superficial, rushed inspections.
“Torres, pull the fuel manifold filters,” Jake ordered, pulling on his leather work gloves. “Davis, check the electrical harness for hairline fractures. If a single wire looks frayed, we replace the entire loom.”
“These filters look clean enough to run another cycle, Corporal,” Torres noted, shining his flashlight into the brass housing. “We usually just wipe the exterior threads and reinstall them to save time on shift change.”
“Not anymore,” Jake said sharply, taking the flashlight and inspecting the filter element himself. “Look closer at the mesh pleats. There is particulate sediment packed deep into the wire. Clean enough is how engines fail mid-flight.”
Torres frowned, looked closer with the magnifying lens, and nodded quietly. Without another word of complaint, he carried the assembly toward the ultrasonic parts cleaner inside the hangar bay to begin the proper cleaning cycle.