Two days later, the Global Hawk went back.
Harker had spent the night prior refining the route: same northbound track, but with an offset dogleg to pass west of the lava-scarred zone, then a lazy arc back east to cut straight across the hot fissures. Fuel reserves: conservative. Comms: solid. Weather: clear enough that the stratosphere looked like polished glass on the MET readout.
"Global Hawk, Tower. Cleared for takeoff."
The HALE bird rolled, lifted, and vanished into the blue. By the time it hit sixty thousand feet, the base felt small again—just tents, steel, and men under a sky that now belonged to a machine.
