This was not the Maldives. I closed my eyes and tilted my head back, toward the unbearably hot afternoon sun. With the breeze blowing, I could almost pretend that the moisture running down my neck and soaking my collar was water from a recent dip in the sea instead of my sweat. Almost. Instead, I was standing at the disembarkation area of Kabul airport, wondering how my boots weren’t melting and sticking to the concrete in such heat. Maybe the reason I hadn’t managed to take my trip was my karma, punishing me because I had decided to go without her. “I thought you were on leave,” said a familiar voice to my right. “I am. Can’t you see?” I opened one eye just enough to see Torres standing next to me, his camouflage hat shading his thick eyebrows.
“See what? You, in the airplane parking area with your head thrown back like you’re in a Coppertone commercial?” A smile formed on my lips. “This isn’t the airplane parking area. It’s a small bungalow over the water in the Maldives. Don’t you hear the waves?” The rhythmic hum of approaching turbines filled the air. “What I hear is that you’re losing your mind…” he muttered. “Looks like they’ve arrived.” I reluctantly opened my eyes and searched the horizon for an aircraft on final approach, spotting it within seconds. Here we go again. As much as I once loved the action that came with my profession, I had to admit I was starting to get old. Peace seemed much better to me than constant war.