Free Blaze of Glory by Jeff Struecker, Alton Gansky

to swivel your seat back into place and raise the seat back. Also please make sure your seat belt is fastened.”
    “Thanks. Will do, Airman.” Moyer glanced at his watch: 0400 local time.
    The young man smiled, turned, woke Rich, and repeated the message. Soon he had awakened every member of the team and the off-duty crew.
    As the steward came forward again, he engaged Moyer. “Ever been to Italy before?”
    “Nope. I don’t travel much.”
    The airman chuckled. “Yeah, I bet you don’t. Once your . . . what did you call it? Training mission?”
    “Yup.”
    “Once your training mission is over you should take a few days to visit the north country. Fabulous sites. Food is great.”
    “I’ll remember that, son. I travel like a salesman.”
    The airman looked puzzled. “Excuse me?”
    “I fly in, see the airport, see the base, see the airport again, and fly home.”
    “I’m familiar with the problem. My father is a business consultant. He’s been in every major city in the U.S. and, according to him, seen none of them.”
    Moyer wanted to tell the man that he had seen parts of some cities no one should see, but let the conversation go. It was time to think of other things.

    CAMP DARBY CONDUCTED ITS business near Pisa, Italy, and had done so since 1951. Named after General William O. Darby, who died in combat in northern Italy during World War II, the camp served as home to twenty-six Army, Air Force, and Department of Defense tenants. Among the military, the base’s greatest claim to fame was its tourist appeal. Moyer’s briefing revealed that 80,000 tourists visit the area annually. The base was one of the few in the world with access to the beach front. Not far away was the city of Pisa with its leaning tower. Any other time such sights would interest Moyer, but for the moment he had other things on his mind. The fact that many military personnel made the area their vacation spot created one more layer of secrecy for Moyer and the team.
    The airman had been a little broad in his announcement that they’d land at Camp Darby. The aircraft touched down at Galileo Galilei International Airport, a facility that served the Aeronautica Militare, the Italian Air Force.
    The men joked and chatted while they deplaned and climbed into the Fiat Ducato minibus that waited for them. As they headed toward the Via Aurella Sud, Rich Harbison gazed back at the C-37A. “I gotta get me one of those.”
    “On your salary?” Pete said. “You can’t afford to have the thing washed.”
    “How do you know I’m not a man of means?”
    “Because you’re U.S. Army.”
    “Oh, yeah, that’s right.”
    The banter died once the small bus pulled away from the airport. Moyer knew his men well enough to recognize their weariness. No one complained. They never complained. He also knew they were thinking about the mission. If they weren’t sleeping, then they were thinking. It’s how their mission worked. Moyer’s own thoughts ricocheted from his family to his mission.
    Female suicide bombers—the world has lost its mind. Battles should be fought by warriors willing to die for their cause; not cowards who hid behind civilians; who used noncombatants to do what they didn’t have the guts to do themselves.
    The early morning sun pushed the silvered moon back to the horizon. Traveling across the Atlantic played havoc with Moyer’s sense of time. He looked at his watch and did the math: nearly ten hours in the air and local time was six hours ahead of the U.S. East Coast: that made it close to 2330 back home. That made it 0530 here. They had flown through the night. His body was yearning for bed while everyone in Pisa was having breakfast.
    The van pulled to the main gate of Camp Darby and was waved in by a bored looking MP. Outside the single enlisted barracks, a boyish looking major met them.
    “Welcome to Italy, the sweetest duty in the military.”
    Moyer snapped a salute as soon as his feet touched the macadam of the road.