I turn to find Sergeant Ellis approaching from the maintenance buildings, his coveralls already stained with hydraulic fluid. He's part of the old guard here, but he's always been respectful of my work.
"Morning, Sergeant. Early start today?"
"Every day." He gestures toward the pond. "Saw your report about moving the habitat barriers farther out. Makes sense."
Earning respect on a military base as a civilian contractor isn't easy, especially as a woman in a field dominated by men who think they know better.
"How's the maintenance schedule looking this week?"
"Packed. Got that inspection team coming through on Thursday."
"I'll make sure to do extra sweeps Wednesday night and Thursday morning."
Sergeant Ellis nods approvingly and continues toward his work area. These small interactions prove that my presence here matters.
I spend the next hour working my way around the airfield perimeter, documenting bird activity and checking the exclusion devices I've installed. Solar-powered speakers emit raptor callsat irregular intervals. Reflective tape flutters in the breeze, creating movement and light patterns that birds find unsettling. Physical barriers block access to preferred nesting areas.
Every bird that chooses to nest elsewhere is a potential strike prevented, a pilot who makes it home safely, a family that doesn't receive a folded flag.
The K9 training area sits adjacent to my usual survey route, and I hear sharp commands and barking before handlers come into view, putting their dogs through morning exercises. My gaze finds him without meaning to.
Master Sergeant Devlin Porter moves with controlled confidence, working with a Belgian Malinois that responds to hand signals with perfect precision. Even from this distance, I can see the bond between handler and animal.
I've noticed him before during his morning runs on the beach access road. Tall and broad-shouldered, with the kind of presence that makes people step aside without him saying a word. He never acknowledges me, too focused on his workout and his dog.
Tyler has been gone for four years. People deal with the loss of a spouse differently. For me, it's meant four years of throwing myself into work, of existing but not quite living. Noticing the K9 handler feels like a betrayal of that careful isolation, so I force my attention back to my tablet and continue my survey.
By the time I finish my rounds and head back toward the operations building, the base is fully awake. I've learned to navigate this world, to speak the language of ranks and protocols, to earn my place.
My office is small but functional. Maps cover the walls, marked with bird migration patterns and strike incident locations. This space is mine, proof that results matter.
I'm updating my morning observations when something feels off. Reference books on my shelf are out of order. Minorthings, but I'm meticulous about my workspace. Everything has a place.
Someone went through my things. Ridgeway has security protocols, locked doors and badge access, but someone with the proper clearance could have walked right in.
Maybe maintenance came through to check something. Maybe another contractor borrowed a reference book. Reasonable explanations exist, even if they don't quite settle the discomfort in my gut.
The morning passes in meetings and paperwork. Around midday, I'm summoned to the weekly safety briefing in the operations center conference room. Lieutenant Colonel Cain runs these meetings with military efficiency, cycling through department heads for updates on safety protocols and incident reports.
When she calls on me, I stand and move to the front with my tablet. The room holds maybe twenty people—senior officers, department heads, logistics coordinators, maintenance supervisors. All eyes turn toward me, and I'm used to that weight by now.
"Bird strike incidents have decreased forty percent since implementing the new habitat modification protocols six months ago," I begin, pulling up data on the conference room screen. "We've successfully relocated three nesting colonies away from primary flight paths, and the raptor call system has reduced loitering waterfowl by sixty-two percent."
Cain nods approvingly. "Impressive work, Miss O'Rourke. Your protocols are exactly the kind of preventative measures that save lives and equipment."
"Thank you, ma'am. Though I should note that ongoing compliance requires coordination with ground crews and flight operations. Some personnel have been inconsistent about reporting bird activity near?—"
"Maybe if we spent less time worrying about birds and more time on actual military readiness, we wouldn't need civilians playing soldier." The comment comes from the back of the room, loud enough to carry but phrased like a mutter.
Master Sergeant Brad Hutchins sits with arms crossed, his expression radiating the kind of resentment that's been simmering since my first week here. Mid-forties, stocky build gone soft around the middle, twenty-plus years in logistics that clearly haven't taught him to keep his mouth shut during official briefings.
The room goes silent. Cain's expression hardens, but before she can respond, I turn to face Hutchins directly.
"Master Sergeant." My voice stays level, professional, the tone I've perfected for dealing with men who think my presence here is optional. "FAA regulations mandate that all military installations maintain bird aircraft strike hazard programs. Additionally, Air Force regulations specifically require wildlife hazard assessment and management at all airfields. This isn't about civilians 'playing soldier.' This is about following federal law and Department of Defense directives that exist because bird strikes cause an average of four hundred million dollars in aircraft damage annually and have killed over three hundred people worldwide since 1988."
Hutchins' jaw tightens, color rising in his face.
I don't stop. "My protocols have prevented at least six potential strikes in the past quarter based on bird activity patterns and near-miss incident reports. That's six fewer aircraft potentially damaged, six fewer pilots at risk, and six fewer millions of dollars the Air Force didn't have to spend on repairs. If you'd prefer we ignore federal regulations and risk both lives and equipment, I'm happy to document your objection in my next quarterly report to Lieutenant Colonel Cain and the FAA."
