18
Turannos
The seaplane with its cargo of Skylar arms and ammunition flew over the Mediterranean to rendezvous at a predetermined location with a merchant ship off the coast of Greece. Manny, an American pilot, who didn’t look old enough to fly, put the plane on automatic pilot and jammed a chew of Big Red inside his cheek. He adjusted his shades to shield his eyes from the blinding sun that glinted off the wings. “Who do you suppose gets this load, the Iraqi’s or some f*****g Palestinian terrorists?” he asked his co-pilot.
“The highest bidder, Manny. Any scab that’s got the do re mi. Don’t matter the color of your skin, the language you speak. Don’t even matter if you’re anti-American. You got the bucks, man. You can have anything you want. Remember the Gulf War?”
Manny looked up to
