Ottoman Dominion

by Terry Brennan

  “Those are the guys you told me about,” said Mullaney, “who are ready to move into Pakistan and secure all of its nuclear weapons if the military government were ever overthrown by jihadist radicals. That would be a good bunch to have on our side. And they’re close?”

  Cleveland was nodding his head but a grimace filled his face. “Yes, they’re close. But I don’t know if they are available—at least not to us. Let me make a call.”

  Cleveland was nervously fiddling with a pencil as the speakerphone in the console on his borrowed desk rang for the fifth time. He looked at his watch and cringed at the hour. Was he making a mistake calling Ernie Edwards? Was it a mistake to allow Mullaney and Hughes to be part of this conversation? But an idea had blossomed in his mind, and now Cleveland was mentally sketching the outlines of a high-risk plan that he was growing to believe was his only viable option.

  Was he ready to gamble so much—wager his past and his future? Was this the only way?

  Would Ernie be willing to take such a risk? He knew the man. How well did he know the soldier?

  Colonel Earnest Edwards, United States Army, patiently endured his early school years in Arkansas and the nearly constant harassment he got about his name. But he was the fifth in a long line of Earnest Edwards, all four of his previous namesakes having attained a minimum rank of Brigadier General in the army. The name and the service were a deeply ingrained tradition. Edwards wore his name like a battle ribbon. He was earnest … and more. He was as tough as cheap steak and as dependable as the sunrise. Colonel Edwards was also a brilliant tactician in the world of clandestine intervention.

  After leading the army’s Tenth Special Operations Group to stunning successes in Iraq, Colonel Edwards was given a new command within JSOC, the Joint Special Operations Command. JSOC formed the Defense Department’s sharpened point of attack against terrorists, hostage-takers—America’s most deadly enemies around the world. Tasked with forming one of JSOC’s Advance Force Operations teams, Edwards handpicked an elite group of comingled Special Forces units from across the US military spectrum and, through his devotion to operational training and penchant for perfection, forged perhaps the most effective and lethal special ops group in the military. Comprised of battle-tested members of Delta Force, SEAL Team Six, and Ranger Recon, Task Force Black could strike quickly and quietly—and with overpowering force—at any point in the world, although primarily tasked with the Middle East, Southern Europe, or Northern Africa.

  Task Force Black was an entire integrated military operation, transported as a package. Not just a bunch of guys with guns, but an elite strike force with the communications, intelligence, and ordinance necessary to fix a problem.

  Task Force Black was a ruthless and lethal bludgeon against America’s enemies. And Colonel Edwards was the man who brought the hammer down.

  The call was answered on the seventh ring. “Atticus, for you to call at this ungodly hour,” said Edwards, his voice gathering in clarity and alertness with each word he spoke, “I’m figurin’ that you got more trouble than a raccoon sparin’ with a pack of pit bulls.”

  “How’s your daughter, Ernie?” Cleveland’s question was genuine, but also had a purpose.

  “Why, thank you for askin’, Atticus,” said Edwards, his back-hills Arkansas twang slathering biscuit gravy over every word as he woke to the conversation. “She told me the other day she’s as happy as if Brad Pitt showed up on her doorstep with a Publisher’s Clearin’ House check. Gettin’ used to that swamp pit in Washington takes some mighty heavy liftin’ after so many years in hippy-dippy San Diego. But she’s burstin’ proud over that job you wrangled for her in the State Department. I’ll never be able to thank you enough, and neither will Maisie.”

  “Tell your wife that it was my pleasure to help,” said Cleveland. “And right now, to be honest, I’m counting on your thanks, Ernie. I need your help.”

  Without hesitation, Edwards responded, “Anythin’ less than ignitin’ World War III, and you’ve got my help in a heartbeat. But you’ve got me on speaker. Who’s listenin’?”

  “My regional security officer, Brian Mullaney, and the embassy’s political officer, Ruth Hughes.”

  “Ruth, you old war horse. You still got all those desert jockeys in the palm of your hand?”

  “Hello, Ernie … it’s good to hear your voice again,” said Hughes, leaning toward the desk. “Send Maisie my love, will you? And tell her I still want her pound cake recipe.”

  “You got it, darlin’. And Agent Mullaney, I’ve heard good things about you, lad. Cream always rises, son. Always rises. Now Atticus, what’s all the fuss?”

  Cleveland took a deep breath. He knew he was getting ready to dive into something that could cost him his career and his reputation. But the stakes were high and getting higher with every breath.

  “I need you to gather a strike team from Task Force Black, at the earliest possible moment—as many men as you can muster—and get them to eastern Turkey without drawing notice to themselves.”

  “Why, I can do that without breakin’ a sweat, Atticus,” said Colonel Edwards, “within moments after we get off this call. The majority of our assets are operatin’ in western Syria. But I’ve got a cracker-jack team that’s just comin’ off three days leave. We were tasked with a hostage extraction from ISIS in Iraq. We got there and the place was empty. So my guys are itchin’ for action. I could have them boots-on-the-ground in Turkey before the sun comes up, if those were my orders. My first questions are where and why?”

  “We have highly credible evidence that a faction of the Turkish military—possibly rogue, possibly directed—is poised for an attack on Incirlik,” said Cleveland. “They intend to eliminate the NATO forces guarding our stockpile of nuclear weapons and make off with as many of the B61 bombs as possible.”

  A low whistle came from the other end of the transmission. “My aunt Martha’s bloomers … okay, I know it isn’t possible, but let’s forget for a moment just how stupid that would be,” said Edwards. “I fully get the jihadist mindset. They don’t care about anythin’ except forcin’ the ultimate battle. So nothin’ they dream up surprises me, stupid or not. But my third question is the most important. Why in heaven’s name am I hearin’ about this from you—a nice guy, but a civilian—and not from my superior officer, General Claiborne, or the secretary of defense? I can’t blow my nose without orders—you darn well know that, Atticus.”

  “I understand, Ernie, and I’ll get you those orders,” said Cleveland. “But there are hundreds of American service men and women on that base, couple thousand wives, husbands, and kids. We believe this plot is already moving forward. So all I’m asking on my authority is that you assemble your men and get them prepared to move, and I’ll work on getting you those orders.”

  The pause in Edwards’s response spoke volumes to Cleveland. “This is highly unusual, Atticus. You’re askin’ me to stick my neck out pretty far on your say-so. That’s a pretty tenuous plank I’m walkin’. What else can you tell me?”

  “It’s a long story, Ernie. But I need you to trust me and I need you to get your force together and be prepared to move. Where are you?” Cleveland asked.

  “I was in bed, in a pretty swanky officer’s billet at the RAF Akrotiri airbase in Cyprus. The Brits have generously loaned us a corner of their base. It gives us and NATO a fairly secret place to use as a stagin’ area in the Mediterranean. I’ve got another officer with me … meetings, you know … but our main force is on the Turkey-Syria border.”

  “Okay, I’ll be back to you as soon as I can,” said Cleveland.

  “Not before daybreak, I hope. I’m goin’ back to bed. So should you. But don’t worry. I can get the wheels movin’, and I’m fine with doin’ that,” said Edwards. “And I understand that American lives are at risk if your information is correct. And I trust you, Atticus. But I can’t, and won’t, deploy American forces on foreign soil without orders from someone under who’s authority I serve. I’m too old an ar
my brat to ignore chain of command. You know that. Get me actionable orders, and I’m at your service.”

  Cleveland knew he couldn’t ask for more. “Thank you, Ernie. Let me get working on those orders.”

  The tension in the room was thicker than Ernie Edwards’s homespun drawl. Mullaney had seen Cleveland at work before, a confident man willing to take risks. But this? This could …

  “This could end your career if it ever got out,” said Hughes, a reverence weighing on the solemnity of her words. “Webster would flay the skin off your back if he got his hands on it. Thank you for trusting us so much.”

  But Cleveland didn’t look like a man who was walking in fear. Shoulders back, head up, eyes alive. Mullaney’s admiration for the man only increased. But so did his concern. Cleveland was walking a tightrope over alligator alley. One slip …

  “We can’t go through Webster,” said Cleveland, “so we’ve got to look for another way. It’s worth a little risk when there are thousands of lives in danger. And it looks to me like we may be the only ones with a chance to stop this madness. I’m ready to do whatever it takes. Are you?”

  Mullaney felt the full weight of Cleveland’s character.

  But he also felt the full weight of his responsibility.

  “Sir … with all due respect.” Mullaney tried to carefully pick his words. “We have bodies here to bury and wounds to bind. We have damaged and vulnerable buildings to repair and a gang of murderous thugs who are a threat to every American life associated with the US mission to Israel. We have a president who is demanding you do everything in your power to get the Ishmael Covenant ratified and a two-state solution a reality. You have a daughter who’s been kidnapped and brutalized and has only you to rely on. And you have a body that has been shot at and bashed around in a car flipping end over end. And you—we—have the box.”

  Mullaney saw that his words were landing—with force. Good.

  “Mr. Ambassador, I’ll trust you with my life and I trust you with the best interests both of our country and all those who serve her. But sir, before we all suit up with Team Black for an assault on Incirlik—and I’m not opposed to the idea—before we take any further steps in that direction, can we take a deep breath here? What is your most important responsibility? And are we truly the only option?”

  Cleveland’s eyes were closed, his head nodding in agreement. “You’re right, of course,” he said. “And I thank you for having the courage to challenge me on this.” Then his eyes opened. And they were full of fire. “But Brian, I will tell you this. I swore an oath to serve and protect … the same oath you swore. As hammered and harassed as we are here in Israel, as broken as our buildings are, we have a viable and effective security apparatus in place to keep our people and our property as safe as possible. And we have Colonel Levinson and his tenacious soldiers of Shin Bet watching our backs. But who is going to protect the thousands of innocents on and around that air base? We have the knowledge. We believe we know what’s coming. Not to act is criminal. Can you live with that? I think not, Brian. I know your heart. And neither could I. So we will do everything we possibly can to thwart this plot.”

  “Sir?” Ruth Hughes was animated. Her body was rocking back and forth in her chair like an overwound clock. “How are you going to get orders for General Edwards? Secretary Townsend told you to leave it alone. Webster will have you on the first plane to DC if you try to reach the secretary again. You’re committing career suicide here, Atticus.”

  Cleveland leaned back in his chair and stretched his neck. He ran his hands over the shining skin of his bald head.

  “Perhaps,” he admitted. “But there’s got to be a way I can get Ernie to put his men into action.” Cleveland appeared to be exploring the ends of his fingers for inspiration. But then he stretched, rotated his shoulders, and let out a vast sigh. “Look, I don’t know about you, but I’ve got to get a couple of hours of sleep. Thanks to Ruth, we know the attack isn’t planned for another twenty-four hours—longer if that windstorm continues. I’ve got to figure out a way to get Ernie his orders, but I feel like my mind is covered in moth balls. Let’s take a break for a few hours and come back at this thing in the morning. Maybe we’ll see better when we’re more clear headed. By the way, Brian, how’s the cottage?”

  “Amazing … a miracle,” Mullaney responded. “The lawn on both sides was cleaved like fresh meat, but the building itself came through unscathed. Only now it’s become a barracks. I’ve got three other agents camped out in the living room. But I’ve got a bed. And I’m going to go find it right now.”

  Just emptying the pockets of his suit jacket felt like he was power lifting a couple hundred pounds. Mullaney wearily tossed his iPhone on the bureau in his bedroom. Jostled, the screen lit up and he noticed a surprising text message. It was Rutherford.

  “Heard about ur troubles. Abby, girls r ok; worried, but won’t tell you. Call me. Need to speak. Important. Richard.”

  Rutherford? Talking to his father-in-law was the last thing he needed at two-thirty in the morning. He was exhausted, in spirit, soul, mind, and body. But this was very unlike Richard. Mullaney had been married to Abby for nearly twenty years, and this was maybe the third time Rutherford had ever reached out to him. And each of those times it had been bad news. Reluctantly, but with growing apprehension, he tapped contacts, pushed the big RR that could only stand for Richard Rutherford, and put his phone on speaker.

  His father-in-law picked up in the middle of the first ring.

  “My apologies, Brian … it’s awfully late over there, and I’m awfully sorry to have roused you at …”

  “I was up, Richard. Are Abby and the girls okay?”

  “They’re just fine, Brian. I reached out to you of my urgency, not theirs. At least, not directly.”

  “What does that mean?”

  There was a pause on the other end of the connection, as if Rutherford was taking a deep breath. “My granddaughters want their father home. I know there have been times when I’ve been a barb in your britches, Brian, but I truly want to help. I can get you home. With honor, and without your career at the State Department taking a hit. But I can get you home … quickly.”

  Now it was Mullaney’s turn to take a deep breath. He was so tired his mind was shutting down. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs.

  Richard Rutherford was a lot of things, but he loved his daughter and doted on his grandchildren. If Kylie and Samantha were pouring out their hearts to grandpa, it was not surprising that Rutherford was looking for some strings he could pull to answer their prayers. Rutherford liked playing God. Be fair. Give him grace.

  “Thank you, Richard, I truly appreciate your willingness to help,” said Mullaney, searching for a response that would not offend. “And I would like nothing more than to wrap my arms around my girls and hold them close … all of my girls.”

  “But—” Rutherford interjected.

  “Yeah … but … if you know about the problems we’ve had here, particularly in Tel Aviv, then I think you’ll understand why this is not the right time for me to leave.”

  “Brian, you have always fulfilled your duty to the utmost,” Rutherford responded. “And you have been exemplary in your duty in Israel as well. From unimpeachable sources, I understand you’ve put your life on the line several times in the last few days alone. Protected the ambassador’s life with your own, rescued his daughter, been in more gun battles than Wyatt Earp. There is no shame in coming home now.”

  Mullaney sat down on the side of his bed. He fought the luring temptation to lie back on the soft mattress. Stay awake. Stay alert! How could he explain? He was desperate to be home. Where a week ago his marriage was in tatters, the future of his family on life support, now there was more than a spark rekindled between him and Abby. She heard his heart and he felt hers. The emotional barricades that separated them had been broached and banished, never, he believed, to return. His life had been resurrected. Hope restored. His prayers exalted in praise to Go
d.

  But …

  Tommy was still dead. Murdered by these so-called Disciples in an alley in Amman, Jordan. Thirteen Americans had lost their lives—nine DSS agents, two embassy staff, and two marines—plus five of their civilian security team, either killed in gun battles or victims of the earthquakes that targeted the embassy and the ambassador’s residence. Another two-dozen people were wounded. And the killers were still at large.

  “Brian? Brian?”

  Rutherford’s voice snapped Mullaney out of a fog. And he realized he had fallen asleep. Sitting up, on the telephone, he had simply shut down.

  “I’m here, Richard. Look, I need to get some rest. I’m ready to crash.”

  “I understand, Brian. But what shall I tell the girls?”

  What, indeed. Perhaps the most pressing reason Mullaney couldn’t consider going home was something he couldn’t even share with Rutherford. It was the box and his new role as guardian. The final guardian he was told. And there was the warrior angel, Bayard, who had enlisted and anointed Mullaney into this quest, this calling. There were so many debts waiting to be repaid. And a supernatural assignment waiting to be fulfilled.

  And now this crisis in Turkey …

  Too much. Too much to turn his back on. But how much could he share with Rutherford? How could he justify declining a gift he desired so desperately, in a way that would not insult or infuriate his father-in-law? Richard Rutherford understood the perils of international brinksmanship. Angels he might not understand.

  “Richard, there’s a part of me that is desperate to get back to Abby and the girls, I won’t deny that,” said Mullaney. “But right now, I can’t entertain that thought. I doubt even you know the full extent of what we’re facing over here. I—”

  “You’re being hunted by a relentless gang of Turkish murderers, for one thing,” Rutherford interrupted. “And then there’s the oddly localized earthquakes that heavily damaged the embassy and Cleveland’s residence. But you make it sound like there is something else, even more formidable, that you’re facing. Something that must be pretty closely held, if none of my contacts have heard about it.”