Donovan's War

by W. J. Lundy

  Donovan’s War

  A Military Thriller

  W.J. LUNDY

  Contents

  DONOVAN’S WAR

  Copywrite

  WESTERN IRAQ

  ALBAHR, SYRIA

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  THANK YOU FOR READING

  About the Author

  _________________________________

  FAST FORWARD

  GRUDGE

  DEAD ISLAND: Operation Zulu

  INVASION OF THE DEAD SERIES

  WHISKEY TANGO FOXTROT

  WAYWARD SON

  THE ALPHA PLAGUE

  THE GATHERING HORDE

  SIXTH CYCLE

  DONOVAN’S WAR

  WJ LUNDY © 2017

  V10.11.2017

  Copywrite

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental. All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  WESTERN IRAQ

  19 March 2003, 02:00

  The Toyota Land Cruiser pulled through the factory gates. A lone streetlight cast an eerie glow over a gravel lot filled with idling military trucks of all shapes and sizes. Exhaust fumes hung in the cold air like mist. Soldiers clad in dark-green uniforms moved along the roadway with flashlights, directing an olive-drab bus and longer eighteen wheelers into a single line. From an open warehouse, civilians overburdened with luggage were approaching the transports, guards checking papers as they boarded.

  Four men sat concealed behind the tinted glass of the Toyota, performing a last round of weapons and communications checks. With their broad shoulders, shaggy hair, and trimmed beards, they could have been clones, all cut from the same cloth in Uncle Sam’s sewing shop. These men weren’t designed for farm life or working in cubicles; they were warriors. A thousand years earlier, they would have found their places behind axes or at the grip of the sword. Even dressed in khakis and polo shirts, there was no mistaking who they were.

  Soldiers down to their DNA, they found their way into service and were eventually selected for their military backgrounds and training. That is where their association with conventional military service ended. Off the books of any government agency, they worked alone, outside the lines, doing things in the shadows. Members of the clandestine Ground Division, a branch of the CIA, they now shared more in common with private contractors and cutthroat mercenaries than any formal branch of the armed forces.

  As the driver cut the headlights, the men made last-minute preparations. In his seat behind the driver, Tommy flexed his cramped legs. The Heckler & Koch UMP45 that was pressed under his left arm ground against his ribs with every movement. The air conditioner running on high did little to prevent the sweat that ran down his back. Tommy watched the armed Iraqi soldiers moving just to his front. Shivers went down his neck, heightening his senses as he felt the tension of how close they were to their enemy.

  Tommy Donovan was a soldier through and through. This was his life, his purpose—a weapon in his hand and an enemy in front of him. Not even twenty-five years old and just a few short years out of the Rangers, Tommy was already a formidable force. He stood out among his peers in the battalion and had gone to Special Forces Selection, but he was pulled from the ranks early during the process and moved to a secluded location where he was briefed on other possibilities for his future. Always one to take a task head on, he accepted the offer and soon found himself in the clandestine Ground Division. The next years were spent training until he was an expert in desert, jungle, mountain, and arctic survival. Finally, out of school and assigned to an operational unit, he was one of two junior members on their first mission with plenty to prove.

  “You sure about this, boss?” Tommy asked.

  Jack Conway was a beast of a man with combat experience in Afghanistan and, before that, Central and South America. He looked back at Tommy from the front passenger seat and forced a smile. “I haven’t been sure of anything since we crossed the border. Just stay cool and we’ll be drowning in pints at a pub in Germany before you know it.”

  This was a four-man expedition into enemy territory on the eve of the ground invasion into Iraq. Posing as French aid workers with all the proper papers, they had been able to move freely from Jordan to this small desert border town located just inside Iraq. Nobody bought their cover; four men built like lumberjacks pretending to be aid workers had turned the eye of every customs agent who heard their story. But the papers were legit and stamped by the highest authority, so their travel wasn’t delayed, their persons and vehicles never searched. Everything they wore had been sanitized, the clothing all purchased in Germany, and the weapons picked up from a dealer in Jordan. Even the radios were Japanese, bought through a street dealer in Kuwait.

  James, the team’s youngest member, sat beside Tommy in the back seat. He was Tommy’s closest friend in the Ground Division. Tommy had even attended the kid’s wedding a year earlier during a break in their training. They were close, but not out of any commonality. James was a rich kid with well-connected parents, while Tommy had grown up an orphan having to find his own way. The two men had become friends out of necessity, the way many military friendships begin. They had both been recruited at the same time and developed a bond during their schooling, amidst the struggle to get through each day.

  Shooting a smile at Tommy, James racked the slide of a Walther PPK and slid it into an ankle holster strapped just above his right boot.

  Tommy shook his head. “What is it with you and all the James Bond bullshit? You really think you’re ever going to use an ankle holster?”

  James shrugged. “I don’t know, man, but this has got to be some of the most whack shit I’ve ever done. Can’t hurt to pack some extra iron.”

  Elias “Papa” Beda, the oldest veteran of the team, chuckled from the driver’s seat. “Welcome to Ground Division, boys, where everything is whack shit,” he said, turning off the ignition. A solid gun fighter, Papa had been with the Ground Division team longer than there had been a team. Before joining the division, he’d been a Marine and had done years with recon, working his way up the ranks. Loaned out to the CIA after 9/11, the agency quickly learned the value of adding paramilitary forces to their ranks.

  Papa had officially retired from the Marine Corps in early 2000, but had been called back after 9/11. Even though all the men spoke Arabic, only Papa had the perfect dialect and could easily blend in as a local, because technically he was one. His parents lived in Syria and even though he immigrated to the United States as a boy he still held a dual citizenship. His background and Arabic language skills made him a vital part of an
y mission. He had more time on the ground, in and out of every third-world toilet, than the rest of the men combined. Everywhere Elias went, he seemed to have a connection with the local population. He had a way with people, making strangers feel like they’d been friends for years.

  “You see any of your brothers out there?” Jack asked, running a coiled wire into his right ear.

  Papa scowled and pushed a hand-rolled cigarette into the corner of his mouth. “Screw you. I’m not an Iraqi– you, dickhead.”

  “What’s the difference? Palestinian mother, Syrian father—just different flavors of the same,” Jack taunted. He looked up and spotted a fat man with a thick, black Saddam Hussein mustache approaching. Jack snapped his fingers and signaled with his chin. “Show time, boys. Looks like we got the Hyena’s attention.”

  “What the hell—who names a kid Hyena?” Tommy whispered. “What is he, some kind of cop?”

  Jack grunted and shook his head. “No. Syrian Special Police, secret service type. Real asshole from what I read in his file. He runs a special unit they call the Badawi Brigade. It’s like the Iraqi’s Republican Guard—only for homicidal maniacs. And, allegedly, this guy likes to pick up the scraps of others, hence the code name. File says he’s an opportunist, so let’s keep our distance and we’ll be fine.”

  The fat man wore olive-green coveralls and enough flashy stitching on his collars to indicate he was in charge. He paused, squinting to look through the tinted glass, then approached the vehicle, smiling from ear to ear. Before he could reach the front, the Land Cruiser’s doors clicked open and the men exited. With James close by his side, Tommy moved to the back and opened the cargo hatch. In the back was a dark-brown Pelican case. Inside were two tight bundles of orange-fabric Combat Identification Panels. Tommy took one bundle while James took the other and closed the hatch. When Tommy had moved to the front of the vehicle, Papa was finishing words with the Hyena.

  Papa turned toward him and pointed to the panels in their arms. In perfect Arabic, he explained, “Make sure each vehicle has a panel securely fastened on the hood.”

  The Hyena grinned with crooked teeth and nodded before turning on his heels, shouting commands. Two young Iraqi soldiers ran from the back, taking the bundles. Tommy moved to the side and watched as the men followed the instructions on fastening the materials to the hoods of the vehicles. They were identification panels that would hopefully prevent coalition aircraft from targeting and destroying the vehicles once they entered the open desert on the road toward the Syrian border.

  Tommy stepped away from the vehicle with James still by his side. Even though not always apparent, the men were constantly covering each other’s blind spots. They worked in pairs, Tommy supporting James as Jack and Papa did the same. Tommy continued scanning for threats, letting the weight of his concealed weapons comfort him. Iraqis scrambled up and down the line of vehicles, loading cargo and emptying cans of fuel into the vehicles’ tanks.

  He looked back toward their own vehicle and could see that Jack and Papa were still talking with the Hyena, the conversation now joined by an Iraqi and a Syrian military officer. Tommy moved farther away and stood in the shadows, watching the loading and positioning of the vehicles. James nudged him with an elbow and signaled toward two large semi-trucks being loaded from the back with fork trucks. The cargo consisted of wooden crates with obscure bio-hazard markings. Someone had attempted to paint over them, but in the right light, the markings still reflected through.

  “What the fuck are we doing here?” James whispered. “Iraqis, Syrians. This is bad.”

  Tommy dipped his chin and scowled then turned toward the school busses being loaded with families. “You were at the same briefing I was. We’re helping high-level foreign nationals safely exit the country before the invasion.”

  “That explains the busses, but not those trucks, bro. That ain’t luggage and household goods they’re packing up.”

  Jack and Papa approached them from behind. Jack moved close, and the men instinctively shifted positions to create another protective bubble. Jack turned back to the front and said, “You boys are looking just a little too hard at the cargo; you’re going to make someone nervous.”

  James shrugged his shoulders and let his eyes drift away. “Nasty shit they’re loading, boss. Does the homestead know what we got here? Isn’t that what this whole war is all about?”

  “Doesn’t matter if it’s bubble gum or the zombie apocalypse. You read the order. We escort this convoy to Syria and make sure the Air Force don’t blow it to shit. In exchange, Assad promises not to rain down hate on Israel for attacking his Arab brother to the east.”

  James shook his head. “Like I said, this is some whack shit.”

  “Hey, boys, you’ve all played dominoes. If we don’t get Assad on board and he bombs Israel, then the Israelis strike back, and suddenly Iran gets a wild hair in their ass to hit the Jewish State. Then instead of a world coalition against Iraq, we got ourselves a Middle Eastern shit sandwich and we all get to take a bite.”

  “So, basically, make this work?” Tommy grunted.

  Jack grinned. “Yeah, make it work.”

  Shrugging, Tommy turned his attention back to the front as diesel engines came to life, the previously low idles now roaring and coughing blue exhaust from rusted tail pipes. A blue and white Mazda sedan with police emblems pulled up beside them. The window rolled down and the Hyena shot the team a big smile and thumbs up. Jack watched intently while Papa and the Hyena exchanged words before the window closed and the vehicle moved to the head of the convoy. Papa turned back toward them. He dropped a cigarette and crushed it under his boot. “It’s time to go.”

  Tommy stood, trying to resist the temptation to adjust the submachine gun under his jacket. Everything about the mission felt wrong, and his senses were tingling on high alert. Jack pointed to the Land Cruiser, and he followed the others. He returned to his seat in the Toyota and unslung the submachine gun from his armpit then placed it between his knees. The Toyota started and Papa edged the vehicle forward. The Iraqi soldiers shone flashlights on them and directed their vehicle into the center of the convoy.

  “You know, I just realized something. We aren’t escorts,” Tommy said. “We’re human shields.”

  “Not likely,” Jack replied without looking back. “To be an effective shield someone has to know we’re here, and then that someone would have to give a shit.”

  James sighed. “Some whack shit, man.”

  Jack opened a center console and removed a dark-gray steel box with a stubby, black antenna. He flipped a switch on the base of the case, which illuminated an LED light at the top. It flashed red several times then locked to green to let the men know they were being tracked by coalition aircraft. “This gives our location to the birds over our head, letting them know we’re friendly.”

  “Can we talk to them with it?” Tommy asked.

  Jack shook his head. “Nope.” He popped open the glove box and removed a tiny olive-colored tactical beacon (TACBE). “But I have a couple of these.”

  They were old and phased out by most armies, but the best they could get while maintaining their cover. The radio would be good for making and receiving emergency calls and had a twenty-four-hour battery. In theory, all coalition aircraft would be listening to the frequency, so if they got into trouble, they could fire it up for a quick rescue. Also, as a last resort, it could be used to call off an airstrike if for some reason a NATO aircraft didn’t pick up on the orange panels and the friend-or-foe, gray box transponder.

  It was less than a hundred miles to the border, and the convoy hardly slowed as the vehicles crossed over it. The Syrians knew they were coming and had the gates wide open for their approach. As the convoy sped past, Tommy looked out of his window and saw the armed border guards standing on the shoulder of the road at attention, presenting salutes to the vehicles.

  “What the hell is that all about?” he mumbled.

  Papa turned his head from the
driver’s seat. “The bus—it’s full of dignitaries, high-level families, stuff like that. Important people.”

  “Damn,” James said from his seat. He looked out at the dark terrain of the wide-open desert that had the same appearance as the surface of the moon. “I don’t know who they were, but I don’t like the thought of going into this place, man.”

  “Hold it together, boys. We rendezvous up here, and then we all go our own way.”

  “It can’t come soon enough. I feel like I have my ass hanging out back here. We are so far from friendlies, we’re hosed if shit goes sideways,” Tommy said.

  Papa slapped the side of the wheel with his open palm. “Man, you two cherries need to calm the fuck down. It’s bad juju to be talking shit like this on an op.”

  Tommy leaned back into the seat, suddenly embarrassed. “I’m sorry—you’re right.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” Papa scorned. “Get your ass back on point. You ain’t back there to lick the damn windows. Keep your eyes open.”

  The vehicles moved onward through the desert. The terrain changed and the road with it, from a dusty trail to a wide, black-top highway. Soon they were crossing over mountains and through small villages that grew larger the farther they got from the border. Tommy watched the terrain pass by his open window, listening to the buzzing of the tires against the pavement. He caught himself nodding off and reached into his shirt pocket for a blister pack of nicotine gum. He didn’t smoke, but he used the gum to help stay focused on long missions. He popped out two pieces and stuffed them in his mouth before passing the rest of the pack off to James.