CHAPTER 11
ON WEDNESDAY, THREE days after his return from Vegas, Jed slung his green duffel bag over his shoulder as he climbed the steps onto the military transport plane he and his team were hitching a ride on, cursing when he saw the canvas seats lining the fuselage. As head of section he usually flew business class, but American Airlines didn’t fly to Wadi Al Khirr airbase. Hardly surprising, seeing as the godforsaken sandpit lay on the edge of the An-Najaf province with nothing around but miles of desert and the occasional camel.
He dropped his bag in the centre aisle, sat down, and tried to get comfortable—an impossible task. Whoever designed those seats obviously held a grudge against anyone who wore camouflage. Thirteen hours he’d be stuck there with no wine, no complimentary pea
