Sunday Special-A Stubborn Angel!
Sam Morgan Storm refers to Samantha Morgan Storm defying gravity on wall of death for decades
“Ma’am, I need you to step back. You are not authorized to be here.”
The command sliced through the humid Virginia morning, sharp and jarring against the solemn silence of Arlington National Cemetery. In the distance, the faint, brassy notes of a warm-up bugle drifted from the hillside, a melancholy prelude to what was to come.Samantha Morgan froze at the stone entrance. She wore
a simple black dress, but over her shoulder hung a battered leather satchel that had seen more combat zones than the young Specialist blocking her path. She met the guard’s eyes, her expression unreadable, forged in places far harsher than this well-manicured gate.
“What you’re saying isn’t possible,” she replied, her voice low but steady. “I served with General William Hawthorne.”
Specialist Miller, looking young enough to be her son, clasped his hands in front of his pristine uniform. “The family section is restricted, Ma’am. Names must be on the manifest. Security is tight.”
Samantha exhaled slowly, reaching into her bag to produce her VA identification card. “Former Captain. Rescue pilot. 101st Airborne. Kandahar Airfield, 2014.”
Miller took the card, glanced at it perfunctorily, and handed it back. “Thank you for your service, Captain. But it doesn’t matter. You’re not cleared for the inner perimeter.”
Around them, officers in dress blues were escorting grieving relatives past the barricade. The honor guard was already assembling near the grave site, where a pristine white casket sat shrouded in the American flag. Samantha didn’t move. She couldn’t.
From the depths of her satchel, she drew out a small, heavy object. It was a bronze challenge coin, tarnished by time and sweat. On one side was the engraved silhouette of a Blackhawk helicopter winged by Valkyrie feathers.
She held it up. “I pulled him out of a burning crash site with this flight marked on my logs,” she said, the memory flashing behind her eyes—the smell of jet fuel, the heat, the screaming. “General Hawthorne lived another ten years because no one left him behind. I’m not going to leave him behind now.”
Miller hesitated, his mask of indifference slipping for a fraction of a second. “Ma’am, everyone here claims they mattered to him. I can’t make exceptions.”
Before Samantha could press further, a shadow fell over them. A Staff Sergeant—name tape reading Davis—stepped into the conversation.
“What is the delay here, Specialist?”
“She’s not listed, Sergeant. She refuses to move to the public viewing area.”
Davis turned a critical eye on Samantha. He scanned her civilian attire with a dismissive sneer. “This is a private family ceremony. If you want to watch, you can stand behind the rope line on the public grounds, two hundred yards back.”
“Sergeant,” Samantha said, her posture shifting unconsciously into the position of attention. “I’m not asking for recognition. I’m not asking for a seat. I’m asking to stand near him. It’s… it’s protocol.”
“Your protocol is irrelevant,” Davis snapped. “The right place for you is where you are told to stand.”
Something flickered inside Samantha. It wasn't anger; it was the cold clarity of the cockpit. The memory of the radio chatter washed over her. 'Angel-Zero-Six, abort! LZ is hot! Repeat, abort!' She remembered Hawthorne pinned under the twisted metal, unconscious. She remembered refusing the order to lift off. She remembered dragging him into the bay while rounds sparked off the fuselage.
She watched the funeral process begin: flag bearers moving into formation, the click of rifles locking into ceremonial position.
“I won’t cause a scene,” Samantha said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “But I will not leave this gate.”
Davis muttered something into his radio, clearly preparing to have her removed. The moments stretched, tense and heavy.
Then, the gravel crunched.
A black government limousine rolled up to the curb, bypassing the line of parked cars. The flags on the fenders snapped in the breeze. A driver hurried to open the rear door.
Heads turned. The air shifted.
The man emerging from the vehicle bore the unmistakable insignia of four stars on his shoulders. He didn’t just walk; he occupied the space with a predatory grace. It was General Elias Thorne, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. A man known in the Pentagon for iron nerves and zero tolerance for incompetence.
He walked directly toward the altercation at the gate.
Staff Sergeant Davis snapped so hard into a salute that his heels cracked together like a pistol shot. Specialist Miller turned pale as the marble headstones behind him.
“General Thorne, sir!” Davis barked, sweat instantly beading on his forehead. “I was just informing this civilian that she is breaching protocol and—”
“At ease, Sergeant,” Thorne said. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried the weight of a thunderclap. He didn’t even look at Davis. He stopped two feet from Samantha.
He looked down at her. He saw the gray strands in her hair, the lines around her eyes, and finally, the bronze coin she still gripped in her trembling hand so tight her knuckles were white.
“Captain Morgan,” Thorne said softly.
Samantha straightened, instincts overriding her emotion. She offered a crisp, perfect salute. “General.”
Thorne returned the salute slowly, holding it a full second longer than regulation required—a sign of immense respect. He then turned to Sergeant Davis, whose face was rapidly draining of color.
“Sergeant, do you have the manifest?”
“Yes, sir.” Davis fumbled to open the clipboard. “Her name isn’t on the family list, sir. I checked three times. We have strict orders—”
“That is because she is not family,” Thorne interrupted, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. “And she is not a guest.”
Thorne reached into the breast pocket of his dress uniform. He pulled out a folded, yellowing piece of paper. It was a flight manifest from a decade ago, stained with oil and dried blood, preserved in plastic. He unfolded it and held it up for the Sergeant to see.
“She is the reason there is a funeral to attend at all,” Thorne said. “General Hawthorne left specific instructions for his service. Only one directive mattered to him above the guest list.”
Thorne turned back to Samantha, his eyes softening. “He said, ‘If the pilot who flew Angel-Zero-Six shows up, she walks in front of me.’”
Staff Sergeant Davis snapped so hard into a salute that his heels cracked together like a pistol shot. Specialist Miller turned pale as the marble headstones behind him.
“General Thorne, sir!” Davis barked, sweat instantly beading on his forehead. “I was just informing this civilian that she is breaching protocol and—”
“At ease, Sergeant,” Thorne said. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried the weight of a thunderclap. He didn’t even look at Davis. He stopped two feet from Samantha.
He looked down at her. He saw the gray strands in her hair, the lines around her eyes, and finally, the bronze coin she still gripped in her trembling hand so tight her knuckles were white.
“Captain Morgan,” Thorne said softly.
Samantha straightened, instincts overriding her emotion. She offered a crisp, perfect salute. “General.”
Thorne returned the salute slowly, holding it a full second longer than regulation required—a sign of immense respect. He then turned to Sergeant Davis, whose face was rapidly draining of color.
“Sergeant, do you have the manifest?”
“Yes, sir.” Davis fumbled to open the clipboard. “Her name isn’t on the family list, sir. I checked three times. We have strict orders—”
“That is because she is not family,” Thorne interrupted, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. “And she is not a guest.”
Thorne reached into the breast pocket of his dress uniform. He pulled out a folded, yellowing piece of paper. It was a flight manifest from a decade ago, stained with oil and dried blood, preserved in plastic. He unfolded it and held it up for the Sergeant to see.
“She is the reason there is a funeral to attend at all,” Thorne said. “General Hawthorne left specific instructions for his service. Only one directive mattered to him above the guest list.”
Thorne turned back to Samantha, his eyes softening. “He said, ‘If the pilot who flew Angel-Zero-Six shows up, she walks in front of me.’”
Samantha felt her throat close up. Tears pricked her eyes, hot and sudden. “I didn’t know he remembered the call sign.”
“Remembered it?” Thorne let out a breath that was almost a laugh, though his eyes were wet. “Samantha, I was the Colonel in the TOC listening to the radio that day. We told you the LZ was too hot. We ordered you to abort. You turned off your radio.”
“He was bleeding out,” Samantha whispered. “I wasn’t going to leave him.”
“I know,” Thorne said. “William told that story at every Thanksgiving dinner for ten years. He credited you with the extra decade he got to spend with his grandchildren. He called you the Stubborn Angel.”
Thorne stepped aside and extended an arm toward the path, breaking every protocol of rank to usher her forward.
“Sergeant Davis,” Thorne commanded. “Escort Captain Morgan to the front row. Seat her next to Mrs. Hawthorne.”
Davis looked struck dumb. “Sir? The widow?”
“Mrs. Hawthorne has been asking where the ‘Angel Pilot’ was for the last hour,” Thorne said, his voice hard as steel. “Move.”
The walk to the grave site was a blur. The whispers that had rippled through the crowd turned into a hushed reverence as the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs walked Samantha Morgan down the center aisle.
When they reached the front, an elegant, elderly woman stood up from the front chair. Mrs. Hawthorne didn’t wait for introductions. She saw the General guiding Samantha, saw the way Samantha walked—with the stiff, proud gait of a soldier trying to hold it together—and she knew.
She bypassed the outstretched hands of senators and dignitaries and walked straight to Samantha.
“Ma’am,” Samantha stammered, fighting to keep her composure, “I just wanted to pay my respects. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Mrs. Hawthorne took Samantha’s rough, calloused hands into her own gloved ones. She squeezed them tightly.
“He kept this on his nightstand,” Mrs. Hawthorne whispered, pressing something into Samantha’s palm.
Samantha looked down. It was the twin to her challenge coin. But the edges were worn smooth, the bronze rubbed down to gold from being touched by a thumb, over and over again, for years.
“He told me that whenever he felt afraid, or overwhelmed, he held this,” Mrs. Hawthorne said, tears finally spilling onto her cheeks. “He said it reminded him that when the world was burning, someone came. Thank you for bringing him home to me that day. Thank you for giving us the time.”
The bugle began to play Taps. The notes drifted over the endless rows of white stones, mournful and perfect, hanging in the thick air.
Samantha Morgan stood at attention, the coin burning hot in her hand, the General on her right, and the widow on her left. She realized then that the guard had been wrong. She wasn't just authorized to be there. She was the only one who could have completed the circle.
She had carried him out of the fire once. Now, she was there to see him safely into the ground.
As the final note faded and the flag was folded into a tight triangle, Samantha whispered into the silence, a final transmission for only one man to hear.
“Clear skies, General. Mission complete.”
Sam "Morgan" Storm Class of 2006-"Soul of the wall of death!"
1955 - April 24, Samantha Morgan Storm known affectionately as Sam was more than a performer; she was a force of nature on two wheels. The only female acrobatic motor drome rider in the world during her prime, Sam spent decades thrilling audiences across the U.S. and Europe, riding her iconic 1931 Indian Scout from Munich to France and far beyond. One of the most notable modern stunt riders, Samantha’s path to the wall was anything but ordinary. After running away from a troubled foster home in Long Island, she spent several years living on the streets of East Coast cities. Her life changed in the mid-1970s when she found herself at a carnival in Dade County, Florida, and joined the Peloquin family. In her own words, she “fell in love with the wall” and from that moment on, she dedicated over 40 years of her life to stunt riding.Sam became the protégé of legendary wall rider Paul “Sonny” Pelaquin. Under his strict and safety-conscious mentorship, she learned to harness her adrenaline, master her technique, and embrace the discipline of the sport. She didn’t just ride the Wall of Death she lived it. Literally.
Samantha Morgan on the Wall of Death at the rally in Sturgis
Fearless female motorcycle stunt women take on the ‘Wall of Death’
Searched and Illustrated by Tejinder Kamboj
( 1940-20?? )
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