Blaze of Glory by Jeff Struecker, Alton Gansky Page B

here. Tell your brother two things. First, our business is now concluded; second, he has a fool for a brother.”
    El-Sayyed turned to leave.
    “Wait.” Michael rose. “We move forward.’”
    El-Sayyed gave a slight bow. “You may tell him, I will continue the next step. May Allah bring you to the light of Mohammed.”
    “Yeah? Well, vaya con Dios to you too.”

CHAPTER 8
    THE AIR FORCE C-37A went wheels-up from the Columbia Metro Airport at 1215 hours and skated into a black sky, passing through gossamer clouds on the way to its cruising altitude, which Moyer had been told would be 41,000 feet. Shortly after reaching altitude, the pilot would settle the craft at a brisk 600 miles per hour.
    Moyer sat in one of the white leather seats near the entrance doors and enjoyed the sensation of flying upward at a forty-five- degree angle.
    “I gotta ask, Boss, who’d ya have to kill to get this ride?” Shaq sat in the seat across the narrow aisle.
    “You like this better than flying cargo on a transport plane?”
    “Well, yeah. Don’t you?”
    “Sure beats commercial airlines.” Moyer’s seat was turned so he faced the back of the modified Gulfstream V. He saw seats for twelve passengers—plush leather seats, some with a simulated wood burl table between them. His team took six of the seats; three of the five flight crew took some of the other seats. Two of those were officers, one was an Airman Fifth Class, or First Class, or Third Class—he never could keep the Air Force’s rank system straight. At any rate, he was an enlisted man.
    “I take it the Army has finally realized how valuable we are and has rewarded all our fine and sacrificial efforts.”
    Moyer looked at his second in command. “That or they’re picking up some dignitary to bring back.”
    Rich tapped his teeth in thought. “Nah, it’s because we’re special.”
    The C-37A was one of nine such craft used by the Air Mobility Command in Illinois. Usually reserved for high-ranking government and DOD officials, the C-37A was an unexpected ride. They would be crossing the Atlantic in style. If he had to spend ten hours confined in a metal tube, this was the kind of tube he’d choose.
    Ten minutes later the pilot’s voice poured from overhead speakers. “All right, gentlemen, we have reached our cruising altitude nearly eight miles up. It looks clear ahead so feel free to move around the cabin. Please keep your lap belts fastened while seated in case we encounter clear-air turbulence . . . or I decide to do a few barrel rolls.”
    “Funny guy,” Rich said.
    “And for our Army passengers, please, no walking on the wings.”
    “Oh, this guy should go on the road.” Rich chuckled despite his sarcasm.
    The airman approached Moyer. “It’s good to have you and your team aboard, Sergeant Major. I’ve been asked to offer you and your men lunch and something to drink.”
    Rich grinned. “Hey, we got a stewardess.”
    The airman, who looked barely older than Moyer’s teenage son, studied Rich for a moment, then turned back to Moyer. “Did you choose him or did he choose you?”
    “I’m being punished for my misspent youth. Thanks for the offer. We’ll eat whatever you have.”
    “Very well, um . . . ”
    “What is it, Airman?”
    “Six Army men in civilian clothes and a ton of equipment makes me think you’re on a mission. May I ask what it is?”
    “Sure. Go ahead.”
    “What kind of mission are you on?”
    Moyer looked the kid in the eyes. “It’s a training mission.”
    “I had a feeling you were going to say that. It seems like all you Army guys are on training missions.”
    “That’s why we’re so good, kid,” Rich said. “I’ll take a ginger ale.”
    The airman slipped to the back of the craft, stopping at each of Moyer’s team and taking orders.
    Before long, a microwaved plate of chicken breast, rice, green beans, and almonds was placed on the small table in front of him. “Man, if this is lunch, I can’t wait to see