The Forbidden Tomb

12

Most dedicated bikers have a few ‘must-see’ events on their social calendar. The Sturgis Motorcycle Rally is usually one of them. It draws more than half a million riders to the Black Hills of North Dakota every year for a rowdy weekend of races, concerts, and parties. Another is the Rolling Thunder Run in Washington, D.C. It honors men and women of the armed forces who have been prisoners of war and those who have gone missing in action. Riders from all across the country descend upon the capital in a show of support for military personnel, both past and present.

Participants in these (and similar) rallies earn the right to wear a special patch associated with each event. Though it is nothing more than a simple piece of sewn cloth, it recognizes those who were willing to put in the time and miles. To bikers, they are symbols worn with pride, similar to military ribbons or medals.

McNutt had plenty of medals, but he preferred the patches.

They looked cooler on his leather jacket.

The largest bike event in Florida is Daytona Bike Week. Early each spring, Daytona Beach is transformed into a haven for cabin-fevered riders from the north. McNutt had made the trip several times, but he had missed the most recent event. Fortunately for him, Daytona offers another opportunity for those who couldn’t attend the main festival. Held every October, Biketoberfest is a second chance to enjoy bikes, beer, and camaraderie with like-minded souls.

Plus a chance to earn another patch.

Most of the bars off the main drag were virtually identical: narrow halls that started with a row of barstools and ended with a pool table. The only thing that changed was the clientele. A quick scan of the room was all McNutt needed to confirm that he had come to the right place. For all intents and purposes, the entire bar was one big reunion. Checking tattoos, McNutt saw representatives from every branch of the US military, as well as three members of the Royal Navy.

‘Hey Jarhead, think fast!’

McNutt spun toward the familiar voice, knowing what would happen if his reactions were slow. As he turned, he spotted a pool ball flying at his chest and the smiling soldier who had launched it. Using his helmet as a basket, McNutt caught the speeding projectile then tossed the ball onto a nearby table.

Three younger Marines seated near McNutt stood to confront whoever was stupid enough to hurl an insult — and a pool ball — at one of their own. But two things stopped them in their tracks. The first was the size of the man himself. He looked like a weightlifter. Or a bulldog. Or a weightlifting bulldog. The kind of guy you didn’t pick a fight with unless he spit on your mother… and even then you’d have to think about it.

The second thing they noticed, the one that quelled the argument completely, was the ‘U.S.M.C.’ T-shirt that he was wearing. Coming from a fellow Marine, the name Jarhead was friendly banter rather than a sign of disrespect.

McNutt smiled as the others sat down. ‘You’ll have to do better than that.’

‘Maybe next time,’ the bulldog said as he waved his friend over to the table. He greeted him with an enthusiastic hug. ‘Shit, man, I thought you were dead!’

‘You’re not that lucky,’ McNutt replied. He motioned for the waitress to bring two more bottles of whatever it was that his friend was drinking.

‘So, where the hell have you been hiding? Are you here for the festivities or to see me? Your message didn’t really explain.’

‘Sorry about that. I didn’t want to get into it over the phone.’

‘Didn’t, or couldn’t?’

‘A little of both.’

The waitress delivered the next round, and each took a moment to enjoy a long, cold pull from his bottle as they stared at the waitress’s ass. Somehow she had squeezed into a pair of shorts that would make a stripper blush, and they approved of her effort.

‘As I was saying,’ McNutt said with a laugh, ‘I’m planning a trip to the Middle East and I needed a travel agent. You’re the first person who came to mind.’

‘I can understand why.’

Staff Sergeant James Tyson was a member of the United States Marine Corps’ Force Reconnaissance Company. He and his men were the first wave of deployment into areas of enemy occupation. Their job was to gather all the relevant information — who was in command, what was their objective, what artillery did they have at their disposal, etc. — and relay that information back to their superiors.

‘You in the mood to build some sand castles?’ Tyson asked.

‘The other way around,’ McNutt said. ‘I hear they have a lot of shit buried in Egypt, and I’m hoping to find some. You still know the area?’

Tyson nodded. ‘The Middle East is my playground.’

‘For now, I’m just interested in Egypt.’

‘I’m sure you know about the instability.’

‘Leaders can’t please anyone well enough or long enough to gain a foothold. No matter what they do, someone sees it as a mistake.’

‘Their constitution was dissolved a couple of years ago,’ Tyson explained. ‘It led to a political free-for-all. At last count, there were at least forty political parties in Egypt. More than forty different views of what is best for the country, each with its own candidate who believes he best represents the voice of the people. It’s controlled lunacy.’

‘But it’s controlled?’

‘Not really,’ he said with a laugh. ‘The hope is that the country will sort itself out and establish a power base that unifies the people — whether that unity comes from this president or the next, no one knows. But the Supreme Council of the Armed Forces is on standby in case things deteriorate. They’ve stepped in before. They won’t hesitate to do it again. Not if the alternative is losing control of the country.’

‘The Supreme Council?’

Tyson nodded. ‘Twenty-one senior officials from various branches of the Egyptian military. They have the authority to overtake the reins of a failing government, not to mention the resources to ensure that their decisions are respected. Of course, that’s just the urban areas. In the desert, there is no control. There are only marauding nomads competing for whatever they can find… which is next to nothing. It’s a brutal wasteland of sandstorms and scavengers. You get lost out there, and you’re as good as dead.’

‘Damn,’ McNutt teased, ‘you gotta be the worst travel agent ever. No wonder I’m your only client.’

Tyson grinned. ‘Just telling it like it is.’

McNutt continued to joke. ‘I’ll take two tickets to the brutal wasteland, please. Are the sandstorms and scavengers included, or do I have to pay extra for that?’

‘Fuck you,’ Tyson laughed before taking another swig of beer. ‘I try to hook you up with intel, and you rub it in my face. Kind of like that tranny rubbed it in—’

‘Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!’ shouted McNutt, who flushed with embarrassment. He glanced around the room to make sure no one had heard the comment. ‘First of all, I was drunk. Secondly, I thought it was a chick. And most importantly, your dad was hot.’

Tyson spit out a mouthful of beer. ‘Dude, that’s so wrong.’

McNutt patted him on the back. ‘Are you okay? Please tell me you’re okay. If you can’t breathe, I can call your father. I still have his number.’

Tyson wiped the tears from his eyes and the beer from his chin. He hadn’t laughed like that in weeks. ‘I’m glad you called, man. I really am. It’s been way too long.’

McNutt nodded in agreement. ‘Sorry about that, but you know how it is. When you’re in country, I’m not — and vice versa. How long you here?’

‘Not very. How about you?’

‘Pushing out soon.’

‘To Egypt?’

‘For starters. And you?’

‘Same region, different zip code.’

‘How close?’

‘Real close.’

‘Good to know.’

Tyson took a long swig of beer before he spoke again. ‘Josh, I don’t know what you’re mixed up in, and the truth is I don’t want to know. No, actually, I take that back. I do want to know — but I respect you enough not to ask.’

McNutt nodded. ‘Same here.’

‘That being said, I don’t think you have a total grasp of the situation. I’m telling you: Egypt is rough. As bad as the deserts are, the cities might be worse.’

‘How so?’

‘Have you heard of the forty-niners?’

‘The football team?’

‘No, the actual forty-niners. The thousands of men and women who made their way to California in search of gold back in the eighteen hundreds.’

‘Yeah, but — where are you going with this?’

Tyson continued. ‘When the forty-niners came to California, they were at the mercy of those who came before them. What they found was that nearly everything required the payment of a toll. “You want to drink from my stream? That’ll be a nickel.” “You want to pass through my land? That’ll be a nickel.” Everywhere they looked, everything they did, they were being charged a fee.’

McNutt shook his head. ‘I’m still lost. How does any of this relate to me?’

‘That’s what the cities are like in Egypt. It doesn’t matter what you’re talking about — legal or illegal; black market, white market, or gray market — there’s always a fee. For everything. And if you don’t pay, they make you pay.’

McNutt raised his hand and ordered another round. He’d stay here all night if he had to, buying drink after drink until he knew everything about Egypt.

‘Who’s they?’ he asked.

Tyson explained. ‘When the government went to hell, criminals saw a golden opportunity and seized control of the cities. And it’s been like that ever since. “You want to build a refinery? Here’s the toll.” “You want to pave a new road? Here’s the toll.” Whoever controls the land sets the price of doing business in that particular neighborhood. And trust me, the fees are a lot more than a nickel.’

‘How entrenched are they?’

Tyson laughed. ‘They control everything in one way or another. Everything goes through them, or it doesn’t go at all. Commerce. Tourism. Industry. You name it, they run it. Just like the mob in Jersey.’

‘That bad, huh?’

He nodded. ‘That shit you mentioned earlier — the stuff you’re hoping to find? There better be a lot of it, because the withdrawal fees are going to cost you plenty.’