The Alexandria Link

SIXTY-FOUR

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 7

9:15 AM

MALONE LEANED BACK AGAINST THE BULKHEAD IN THE CAVERNOUS C130H transport. Brent Green had worked fast, hitching them a ride on an air force supply flight out of England bound for Afghanistan. A stop in Lisbon at the Montijo Air Base, supposedly for a minor repair, had allowed them to board with little fanfare. A change of clothes had awaited them; Malone, Pam, and McCollum now sported army combat uniforms in varying shades of beige, green, and brown, along with desert boots and parachutes. Pam had been apprehensive about the chute, but accepted his explanation that it was standard equipment.

The flight time from Lisbon to the Sinai was eight hours and he’d managed a little sleep. He recalled with no affection other flights on other transports, and the pall of oily jet fuel that hung in the air brought back memories of when he was younger. Staying away far more than being home. Making mistakes that hurt him even now.

Pam had clearly not liked the first three hours of the flight. Understandable, given that comfort was the least of the air force’s concerns. But finally she’d settled down and fallen asleep.

McCollum was another matter.

He’d seemed right at home, donning his parachute with expert precision. Perhaps he was ex-special forces. Malone hadn’t heard from Green as to McCollum’s background. But whatever was learned would soon be of little consequence. They were about to be out of touch, in the middle of nowhere.

He stared out the window.

Dusty, barren soil stretched in every direction, an irregular tableland, tilting ever upward as the Sinai Peninsula narrowed and erupted into craggy brown, gray, and red granite mountains. The Burning Bush and the theophany of Jehovah all supposedly occurred down there. The great and terrible wilderness of Exodus. Monks and hermits for centuries had chosen it as their refuge, as if being alone brought them closer to heaven. Perhaps it did. He was curiously reminded of Sartre’s Huis Clos vision.

Hell is other people.

He turned from the window and watched McCollum leave the loadmaster and walk toward him, taking a seat on the aluminum frame that stretched across the bulkhead. Pam lay ten feet away, on the opposite side, still sleeping. Malone was eating one of the meals ready to eat-beefsteak with mushrooms-and drinking bottled water.

“You eat?” he asked McCollum.

“While you were sleeping. Chicken fajitas. Not bad. I remember MREs all too well.”

“You do look at home.”

“Been here, done this.”

They’d both removed their earplugs, which provided only minor insulation from the constant drone of the engines. The aircraft was loaded with pallets of vehicle parts destined for Afghanistan. Malone imagined that there were many similar flights each week. Where once supply routes depended on horses, wagons, and trucks, now the sky and sea offered the fastest and safest routes.

“You look like you’ve been here, too,” McCollum said.

“Does bring back some things.”

He was watching his words. Didn’t matter that McCollum had helped get them out of Belém in one piece. He remained an unknown. And he killed with expert precision and no remorse. His redeeming quality? He held the hero’s quest.

“You’ve got some pretty good connections,” McCollum said. “The attorney general himself arranged this?”

“I do have friends.”

“You’re either CIA, military intelligence, or something along that line.”

“None of the above. I’m actually retired.”

McCollum chuckled. “You keep that story. I like it. Retired. Right. You’re up to your eyeballs in something.”

He finished the meal and noticed the loadmaster eyeing him. He recalled that they could get touchy as to how MREs were trashed. The man motioned and Malone understood. The container at the far end of the bench.

The loadmaster then flashed his open palm four times.

Twenty minutes.

He nodded.