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would seem like first class.”
    True to the copilot’s word, the chopper descended rapidly as it neared the airfield, buzzing low over the ground toward the end of a clay runway that ran parallel to the paved main runway. In the dark, Travis saw the silhouette of one of the big C-130 Hercules turboprop transport planes, airport lights illuminating a painted stripe on each of the spinning propellers. The pilot set the chopper down twenty yards away. As soon as it settled on its landing gear, Travis jumped out the open door, duffel slung over his shoulder. He ran toward the plane, the big open ramp in the rear beckoning him. Two soldiers standing in the opening waved him on.
    The moment his feet hit the metal ramp, one of the crew hit a button and the ramp lifted off the ground. The other soldier spoke into a handheld mic and the big plane immediately began to roll down the runway. Travis dashed the rest of the way up the ramp, and all three of them scurried forward through the empty cargo hold to a row of webbed seats on the starboard side.
    “Sit anywhere you want,” a crew member yelled over the roar of the engines.
    Travis nodded, stowed his duffel, and strapped himself into a seat. The plane accelerated down the runway and gradually lifted into the air, slowly climbing into the night sky. When they reached cruising altitude, a crewman unbuckled his seatbelt, dug into a cooler on the seat next to him, and fished out a bottle of water. He tossed it to Travis, who caught it and nodded gratefully.
    Looks like I’m flying in economy.
    He took a sip of water, closed his eyes, and let the drone of the engines slowly lull him to sleep.
    Nine hours later, the big transport plane touched down in Wiesbaden, Germany. They’d been racing away from the sun, so it was still dark outside when they taxied in to the terminal. He thanked the crew, though they hadn’t done much except watch him sleep, and deplaned out the port hatch. Stiff from the long flight, he tried to work out the kinks as he walked across the tarmac. Inside, he found a bank of vending machines and bought a cup of coffee that tasted terrible and a granola bar, which he consumed in three bites.
    Personnel at an operations desk steered him to another part of the terminal for his next flight. No one manned the gate, and there was no transport plane on the tarmac outside the window, so Travis sat down and waited. When no one showed after fifteen minutes, Travis got up and paced impatiently. Catching a whiff of himself, he realized his uniform was getting a little ripe. He got some toiletries out of his duffel and went looking for a restroom. When he found one, he stripped to the waist and washed up as well as he could, donned a fresh T-shirt, and put on his uniform shirt again. After he brushed his teeth, he went back to the gate and reclaimed his seat.
    Ten minutes later, a female enlistee in a blue Class B dress uniform approached him and stood at attention. She saluted as he rose to his feet.
    “Captain Barrett?” she said.
    Travis returned her salute. “At ease, corporal.”
    She relaxed. “Sorry you had to wait, sir. We’ve been fueling and servicing the aircraft. You’re welcome to board now.”
    A tall brunette, she wore her hair pulled back and twisted in a bun below the uniform black beret. She led the way to a door that opened onto the tarmac. Travis followed, his mouth opening in disbelief when he saw that the transport wasn’t another noisy cargo plane or big troop carrier, but a sleek C-37A, the military version of a Gulfstream V. USAPAT only sent one of its Army First Jet Detachment C-37s for top brass—nothing less than a full four-star general, and usually only for cabinet members.
    “There’s been some mistake,” Travis said as the corporal climbed the folding stairs to the cabin door.
    She stopped halfway up and turned. “No mistake, Captain Barrett. We need to ferry this plane back to Andrews, and we got a call that you needed a ride. No