I spot her at Hangar Thirty-Five as the C-17 taxies forward. She’s alone on a corner of the tarmac, palming a cigarette. She exhales smoke windward, in the direction of Ko’olau, like a dragon misting its breath over Diamond Head’s crater. The crowd hushes as the plane stops beside the flight operations building. No Taps. No weapons firing. No loud calls to attention. Even the babies are silent. Only the birds offer proof of life, twittering unseen in the surrounding lushness. The ramp lowers and four service members—Air Force, Army, Navy, and Marine—board the back of the plane and get