Rook was either dead or sleeping. Given the general state of ease in the helicopter, one would be forgiven for guessing the former. It took the swaying and shaking of the helicopter to betray the life within her as her body remained stationary, counter-swaying through every dip and jerk. One hand rested in the classic broken wrist pose on the grip of her M4 while the other seemed to be caught half way between reaching for the utility knife at her hip and lifting the barrel of the rifle towards the hatch of the helicopter.<br/><br/>Half-asleep and half-awake, Rook could have slept through an earthquake but awoken at the someone slipping out a knife during a rock concert. The art of catnapping was a trick most soldiers learned quickly. Better for her, she seemed to have a good internal clock (or her body was just attuned to the motion around her) and had already awoken fifteen minutes before they were ready to land. Since then, she'd allowed herself to drift in and out of light slumber while the politics of the situation, or at much as she had been told and found out, flashed behind her eyelids.<br/><br/>History, they said. The first females in a combat role. Not support, not auxiliary, but direct combat. A politician she'd never heard of had talked to a general she'd never seen and gotten her an assignment she'd never asked for. The newspapers had nicknamed her The All-American Girl, in part for her looks, in part for her history, and in part because she had the kind of mass appeal story that people liked. That's what the cadets down at the psychological warfare department had said anyway; it was mildly comforting to know that the Army's digital artists and graphic design jockeys sympathized enough to gave her a straight answer.<br/><br/>She was no stranger to pressure and scrutiny. The kind being given to her now was new, though, as every one from her instructors to the quartermaster had something to say on it. Do us proud. Don't mess up. It's an honor. Women don't belong in combat roles. You have to prove that women can do anything that the men can. And in the craze of attention, somehow someone had forgotten to tell just what exactly her command was suppose to be. That, out of it all, irked her the most. She hated doing something without all the information especially when that information was easily available. The best Melinda had gotten was that she was heading to South America for an anti-terrorism operation. Everything else, she'd have to read once she had a chance.<br/><br/>Her left eye opened. Spaight's words were right on cue at about fifteen seconds after she was fully awake and aware. The storm cloud of her eye caught his in silent acknowledgment before sliding to a spot an inch over his left shoulder. After amusing herself by decapitating the Delta Force operator using her blind spot, Melinda opened her other eye to look around at the rest of the soldiers and allow her eyes to adjust to the light. It was like graduation all over again; she had her picture taken more times at the ceremony than she had in the past twelve years combined.