Donovan's War: A Military Thriller (A Tommy Donovan Novel Book 1)

by W. J. Lundy

  He gave her a knowing nod and accepted the key. The room was Spartan but perfect for his needs. He found the mini bar fully stocked and removed two shooters of Jameson, which he downed quickly before hitting the shower and finding the bed.

  A knock on the door woke him from a deep sleep. He rolled to his side and saw that the clock showed ten o’clock. He lay there listening to the knocking, followed by the familiar voice of the desk clerk. “Mr. Flynn, your luggage has arrived from the airport.”

  Tommy squinted and rolled from the bed. He didn’t have any luggage. He opened the door to find the woman holding a small garment bag with an American Airlines toe tag with the words O’Connell Transport stenciled on the back. He thanked her and closed the door before dropping the bag on the bed. Inside, he found a pair of black, roughed-out work boots and deep-blue work pants with a shirt and jacket to match. He removed them from the bag, laying them out flat, and found that each item was embroidered with the name Flynn.

  At the bottom of the bag was a thick manila envelope, which contained a keycard with O’Connell Transport stenciled on the top and Michael Flynn in bold letters on the bottom. On the back was a printed address to a security gate on Andrews Field. He then found a printed itinerary and flight manifest with his name attached; the flight was leaving in just over two hours. There was also a thick, white envelope stuffed with five thousand dollars, all in twenty-dollar bills.

  He dressed in the blue utility uniform, lacing the boots tight. He dumped his old clothing in a trash bin and set off for the O’Connell transport hangar at Andrews Field. It was there at a security gate that he was greeted by a small, wiry man in a dark-green flight suit—Raphael, a former officer in the Italian Airforce, now a contract pilot with OTI. The man escorted him into the back of a white sport utility vehicle, and drove him across the field to a giant hangar with the words O’Connell Transport International over the door. The vehicle pulled directly into the hangar where an Airbus A330 was being loaded.

  The truck stopped and the man sat, still looking forward, with hands on the wheel. Without turning, he said, “You must be very important to Mr. O’Connell. He tells me that you do not exist. That I should violate the law and provide you with passage into a military installation in a foreign country. I should do things that could cost me my job and my freedom.”

  “I’m sure Mr. O’Connell will compensate you well for your troubles.”

  The man laughed and shook his head. “I just hope I can stay out of a Jordanian prison long enough to spend it.” He turned and looked back over the bench seat at Tommy then pointed toward the aircraft. “We will be lifting off soon.”

  Tommy nodded and exited the vehicle, following the man up a walkway and to a seat near the front of the aircraft. Once he was seated and the baggage stowed, he felt the aircraft moving as it was towed onto the runway. Soon they were in the air and the man returned, dropping a boxed lunch and several bottles of water on the seat next to him.

  “I don’t want to know anything about you, or why you are going to Prince Hassan Airbase. You are here because my employer insisted.” The man reached into a pocket on his thigh and handed Tommy a leather satchel. “Inside is a passport. It was short notice, but it’ll work. There is a driver’s license and a credit card with the name Michael Flynn. They are excellent forgeries but will not hold up to any serious scrutiny. I advise against using the credit card unless you want to be located.” The man then removed a small black key and a business card with a printed address on the back. “This is a company apartment. Mr. O’Connell has scheduled another delivery to meet you there. You may use this apartment at your leisure as long as you remain in Jordan.”

  Tommy took the documents and placed them into the top of his bag. “I’ll need a driver when we arrive.”

  “Of course, it has all been arranged. Mr. O’Connell called ahead and assigned you a guide. He is one of ours and you can trust him. We make one stop in Saudi then continue to Prince Hassan. When the flight arrives, you will stay in your seat as we move to the hangar. A man from customs may or may not board for a cursory inspection. Once customs is cleared, you will meet with your driver and be taken to the apartment. From there, Mr. Flynn, you are on your own.”

  The man hesitated and turned back. “Mr. Flynn, I don’t know what you are planning, but you should give it time. These people are sensitive to strangers; your arrival will not go unnoticed.” Receiving no response outside of a smirk from Tommy, he said, “Very well, then.”

  Tommy reached into his pack and removed three hotel shooters of Scotch and drank them end to end before washing it down with half a bottle of water. He still wasn’t sure what he would do when he reached Jordan, but the whisky cut back on the concern. He’d been to the country a dozen times in his career and started more than one operation from Prince Hassan. This wasn’t unfamiliar territory. He had friends and contacts there, but most he hadn’t heard from in over two years. He checked his watch and put his seat down; O’Connell’s charter jet sure beat a C17. Tommy yawned and stretched, looking forward to the much-needed rest of an overnight flight. He felt the booze take him, and he turned his head, drifting to sleep.

  The jet arrived in Jordan in the middle of the day. Exiting the aircraft was like walking into a blast furnace. Even sheltered in the shade of the hangar, the Jordanian sun rolled waves of heat at him from the cement runways. His head pounded from the makings of a hangover and the want of another drink. He took a handful of aspirin and chased it with a cold bottle of water.

  Just as Raphael had promised, a white SUV greeted him at the bottom of the steps. There were no goodbyes from the flight crew, and no greeting from the driver. The vehicle had black-tinted windows and, from the shape of the doors, Tommy could tell it was armored. A man in traditional Arab dress with bronze aviator glasses retrieved his bag and dropped it into the back. Tommy moved down the stairs, around the SUV, and took the seat behind the driver.

  The vehicle was cool, the window tint shading the interior. Vents on the headliner blew down on him. Tommy put his head back and let the cold air clear his head. The driver entered and pulled away from the hangar, moving toward a service gate that opened well ahead of the vehicle. Tommy brushed his fingers through his thick hair. He wore dark gargoyle glasses and let his eyes survey the road.

  “How far?” he asked absently.

  The driver looked up from the road and back at him in the rearview mirror. “Not far.”

  Jordan was painted in the colors of bleach white and khaki. The bright sun reflected off everything, blinding him. The driver turned onto a wide two-lane highway and headed north. Tommy shifted in his seat and felt something knock against his heels. He looked down and found a small, black, Pelican case with OTI stenciled on the top. Tommy retrieved it and caught the gaze of the driver. The man shook his head. “Leave it, the case is only for emergency. There is a Glock and extra ammunition inside.”

  Tommy frowned and opened the box. After loading the Glock, he dropped it on the seat beside him. The driver protested with a scowl, but Tommy waved him off and said, “A box is not a holster. If it came time to use that, we’d be dead before I had it ready.”

  “This vehicle has the latest armor. And Jordan is not Syria. The locals would not be pleased to find you armed if we were to be stopped.”

  “You’re driving pal, guess you better make sure we don’t get stopped.”

  The man nodded and reached over the seat, handing Tommy a linen scarf. “You should put this on. We will be at the house soon. The border region is dangerous with many crossing over from Syria and Iraq. There are people watching.”

  “What people?” Tommy asked, expertly folding the shemagh and wrapping it around his head.

  The driver shrugged. “They are all here; Russians, Mossad, Iranians, CIA… take your pick. Everyone watches the border closely these days.”

  The SUV veered off of the highway and onto a dusty, gravel road. At the end of it was a gated community with an armed guard, and
beyond that, a cluster of homes with mud block walls surrounding them.

  “Mr. O’Connell pays a healthy sum for this place. You will be safe here. The community is gated, and there are roving guards around the clock.”

  The SUV drove down the center of the road then stopped near the last home on the right. The driver waited with the engine idling as he worked a smart phone. Then the gate rolled back and the driver pulled in, the metal barrier closing behind them. “The best security,” he said, grinning.

  Exiting the SUV, Tommy found the air hot and dry. The house to the front was made of stone, no windows on the first floor, and a balcony completely lined the second. The driver exited, retrieved Tommy’s bag from the back, and placed it on the stoop before unlocking the front door. “If nothing else is required, I will be leaving.”

  Tommy turned back to look at the Glock still resting on the seat. The driver grinned with badly stained teeth. “You will find better inside, leave this one if you wish.”

  “I’ll need transportation north tomorrow.”

  The driver squinted. “Yes, I was told that you intend cross the border?”

  Tommy nodded. “Of course.” He patted a lump at his breast pocket. “I can pay.”

  The Arab smiled. “You are an employee of Mr. O’Connell, same as me. The expense has already been paid. When must you travel?”

  “First thing in the morning. I need to meet a friend north of the border.”

  “And you are sure this friend will be there? The regions north of here are in disarray. May a suggest Damascus? I think you would better enjoy your stay there.”

  Tommy shrugged. “This isn’t a vacation. And yeah, if my friend is still alive, he’ll be there.”

  The man nodded his head again and returned to the driver’s door. He stepped back and handed Tommy a business card. “If you need something call this number and ask for Ali. Otherwise, I will be here at five AM. I can take you across the border—but I must warn you, Syria is not a friendly place.”

  For the first time since arriving, Tommy smiled. “I’m counting on it.”

  The Arab shook his head and returned to the SUV. Tommy crossed his arms as he watched the vehicle leave and the automated gate close behind it. A pair of jets raced by low overhead, flying to the north, reminding him of the war zone that was close by. He walked the perimeter of the building, finding that the wall completely surrounded it. Inside, it was far cooler. There was no air conditioning, but the building was constructed in a way that encouraged air circulation.

  He stepped into a large, open room with a fireplace on the back wall and a corner kitchen to his right. The refrigerator was stocked with water and local produce, nothing to get excited about. He rummaged through cabinets looking for booze but came up dry, literally. There was a modest dining room with seating for two in the center of the space. He left the kitchen and dining areas and climbed a staircase to his left. The top floor was an open studio with a pair of beds and a modern European-style bathroom across from him.

  Tommy passed into the room and dropped his bag beside the bed. An armoire was on the back wall, which he found to be locked. Remembering the key he was given, he slipped it into the keyhole and felt it click true. Inside was a pair of M4 rifles, an MP5 and several spare magazines along with another sealed Pelican case stenciled with OTI. “I don’t think James told me everything about his dad’s business,” he said to himself as he removed one rifle and loaded it, leaving the cabinet door open. Then he took the case and placed it on the bed. Upon opening it, he found a satellite phone and another Glock with three magazines. This would help him sleep, but he would need more than weapons to find Sarah. And for that, he would require help from an old friend.

  9

  Ankara can be a beautiful city in the winter, Fayed thought as he sat in an open-air café overlooking Kugul Park near the city center. He was comfortable here; he blended in. He had a nice flat that was bought and paid for, and associates who ensured his around-the-clock security. He could walk freely here and, on occasion, find a woman to spend the evening with. Turkey was wealthy compared to other Arab Nations. They had one of the largest armies in Europe, and their streets were well guarded. The United States even housed a large air force base in the center of the country.

  The primary problem in Turkey was extremism, and it was everywhere. It was in the men on the street and in the dark parts of the city, where most people refused to go. There was a rift between the military and the government when it came to the politics of terrorism. The president was an ideologue, who tended to associate with the extremists, while the military commanders realized the threat that radical Islam could have on the nation.

  There were no secrets about the border clashes with Kurdish rebels and the mixed motives about the war with ISIS. While the military did what it could to battle the extremists, the president seemed to take their side and only do the bare minimum of what was necessary. He saw the Americans, who were constantly pushing the government to be harder on ISIS, as a nuisance. To him, the real threat was in keeping the Kurdish resistance weak. In his eyes, every day the Kurds and extremists battled on the front lines was a good day for Turkey.

  Given these factors, the military was forced to sit back and watch as the two groups destroyed themselves. Why get involved in a war that was already beneficial to its population? To date, their involvement was more about containment; to be more passive than do anything that would turn the tide one way or the other. It was no surprise to Fayed that an American familiar with the regional chaos would pick Turkey to make his border crossing. There were little to no efforts made to keep people from funneling into Syria to join the extremists.

  Watching a couple pass by, he caught the movement of a man in a pressed, white shirt sitting alone at a corner table. The man wasn’t eating and only had a glass of ice water front of him. When Fayed looked in the man’s direction, the stranger quickly looked away. Fayed smiled to himself, sipped his tea, and picked at a roll of walnut baklava. Without looking back, he knew he was being watched from at least two directions. He grinned, knowing they were friendly. If not, his own security would have informed him by now. He held up a hand and called a waiter, ordering a second tea and another plate. Just as the waiter turned, he saw two men in black suits enter through a side gate, directly behind them was Abdul and a third guard.

  The man moved through the space and sat without speaking. His guards spread out, standing by walls and along the entrance. When the waiter arrived, Abdul pushed away the tea, ordering a plate of figs and bottle of Raki with two glasses. “We are in Turkey, we will drink like the Turks,” he said with a grin. When the waiter moved away, Abdul looked to Fayed and said, “You have information for me?”

  Fayed nodded and reached inside his jacket, removing three folded pages. He slid them across the table to Abdul. “The American nun has a brother.”

  “A brother?”

  The Syrian shrugged and held up a finger, seeing the waiter return with the tray of Raki, a pitcher of water, and two glasses. He remained quiet as his drink was made. He then lifted it in a mock salute and drank thirstily with his eyes closed. “To understand this land, you must drink Raki. With Raki, all becomes clear.”

  Fayed ignored the comment and, once the waiter was gone, continued. “The brother may be of concern to us.”

  “How so?” Fayed asked. “We all have brothers or sisters of some sort. Is the brother wealthy?”

  “No, but not many of us have brothers like this one. He may be of some importance.”

  Abdul grimaced and took a fig into his mouth, chewing slowly. “Explain.”

  “He is a counter terror expert.”

  “As are you. That’s why you are compensated handsomely,” Abdul rebutted. “I hope this is not the reason you have brought me here, my young friend.”

  Fayed clenched his fist and relaxed it. He reached for his own glass, sipped at the clear liquid, and let it burn in his mouth. “He is in Istanbul.”

 
This got Abdul’s attention. He looked across the table at the inspector. “Istanbul? You’re sure?”

  Fayed shook his head. “Unfortunately, no, I am not at all sure. He flew in two days ago from Boston then vanished. The people who alerted us say he may be after his sister.”

  “And what are you doing about it?”

  “I had hoped to have him intercepted here. I checked the airport, and we questioned the taxi drivers. We traced him to a hotel by the water. The room was paid up for two weeks with his own credit card, but the maid said the bed has not been slept in. The man has vanished.”

  Abdul nodded. “This is curious, but still, he is only one man.”

  “We don’t know that. He may be connected.”

  “How so?”

  Fayed indicated the folded papers. “He did work in Iraq and Syria before the withdrawal. He may have contacts.”

  “That war was a long time ago.” The Syrian smiled brightly. “Things have changed since the Americans left. We own the streets now, and we have their backing.” Abdul took another sip of his drink, letting the liquid swish in his mouth before swallowing. “Still, I understand your concerns, but the girl is under lock and key along with the two other Western women. We will be rid of them all soon enough, and we have you to make sure there are no connections to us.”

  “And how do you plan to be rid of them? Have you received word of ransom from their families?”

  “Ransom? Ha! That is your job, Fayed. I do my thing and you do yours.”

  Fayed looked at him with a concerned expression, which caused Abdul to release a mocking laugh. “Relax, I don’t plan to kill them—not yet. I have a high-dollar bid for the Canadian woman. And I am very close to sealing a deal for the French one. She speaks our language and will go over well on the markets. They will make great wives to our allies,” Abdul said, stuffing another fig into his mouth.