by W. J. Lundy
Spotting a familiar face move past the hostess stand, he leaned back causally and nodded to a tall man as he dropped into a chair across from him. The man was of similar build and, in the right light, he could easily pass as Tommy’s brother. The man was a friend, not a close one, but one he knew he could trust.
“Hello, Winston,” Tommy said without taking his eyes from the crowd walking by the bar’s windows.
The man placed his travel documents down and raised a hand, calling for a beer of his own. He looked at the boarding pass across from him and smiled. “I thought you retired.”
“I did. I was done with all of it, but this is personal,” Tommy said.
The man looked closer at the boarding passes. “I see I’m not going to Saint Thomas,” Winston said with a frown.
“Like I said, this is just like the weekend at the beach.”
Tommy had never been to the Islands and it was a place he always wanted to go. He liked the idea of doing nothing, sitting at a bar with a full view of the beach, sipping on drinks from a coconut while chasing bronze women. Years ago, Tommy had vacation plans and full intentions of going. He took the time off and paid the money. But as always happened in the Ground Division, at the last minute, he’d been called away on a mission. Rather than go to the trouble of canceling and losing the money on a non-insured trip and hotel reservations, Tommy gave the tickets to his look-alike, who traveled in his place. Winston took the trip and made sure to gloat about the great time he’d had pretending to be him at the all-inclusive resort.
Tommy took the frosty glass and sipped. “I need you to pretend to be me again. It’s for a week. I need you to travel both legs, use my documents. Retrieve my checked bag at the airport. Destroy the identification once you clear customs, find a discreet hotel, and hole up seven days. Leave everything in the bag in the hotel room and let the fake me disappear. Return to Europe on a train and with your own papers, hole up in Germany for a few days before flying back.”
The waitress arrived with the man’s glass, and he let it rest by his wrist as he examined the documents across from him, pondering a response. “You going to tell me what this is about?”
Tommy looked away and cupped his glass. “It’s better if you don’t know.”
“Why are you trying to disappear? Are you being followed?”
Tommy pulled at his beard. “Followed, but not chased—not yet, but it’s the intention.”
“I see,” Winston said, looking down. He looked up and locked eyes with Tommy. “You know we’re friends; if you’re in trouble you can come to me.”
Tommy smiled and took another pull from his glass. “That’s what I’m doing now. I need your help.”
Winston nodded and sipped from his own beer. “Okay, I won’t ask any more questions.”
“You still have the regular account?” Tommy asked.
“Don’t worry about the funds.” The man shook his head and causally reached across the table, snatching away the travel documents. With three gulps, he finished his beer and stood. The man straightened his shoulders. “I have some expense cash left from a prior. If you called, I know it’s important. Better this way—I don’t need any trace between you and my accounts in case they look.”
Tommy nodded and his forehead furrowed.
Winston shrugged and, before looking away, said, “Good luck to you, Tommy. Your flight will be boarding soon.”
Tommy landed in Washington just after ten PM. He still wore the dark ball cap and reversed jacket, but this time, as he left the terminal, Tommy steered clear of the cameras and avoided eye contact. With his carry-on bag over his shoulder, he moved to the curbside and waved an arm, ignoring the line of waiting people. He entered a wagon and handed the driver a slip of paper. The driver, a man with dark skin and a thick accent, held it to the light then looked back at him. He looked at Tommy in the mirror, his eyes holding on his long hair and beard. “Are you sure? Do you know where this is?”
“Is there a problem?”
“No, sir—Great Falls it is.”
The driver put the car into gear and entered traffic. The radio in the dash beeped and the driver looked down at the dial and then to the ticking meter. Tommy knew why the driver was questioning him. Great Falls was prone to hired cars and limos, government contractors and tech executives, not men in jeans and leather with overgrown beards. It was suspicious for him to be traveling there at this time of night.
Turning his head to the window, Tommy took in the sights of the bustling city. He caught the driver’s stare again. When Tommy looked up, the man quickly turned away. He was headed to a mansion some twenty miles outside of the city in a wealthy neighborhood—a home he’d only been to once, a very long time ago, when he was a different man on a break from training shortly after joining the Ground Division. He was there for the wedding of a close friend, James O’Connell, Junior. A friend who was killed less than a year later on a mission that never officially happened, taken by a traitor’s bullet in the eastern deserts of Syria.
He winced, thinking about the day his friend died and the man responsible. He was still young then and green, as yet unaware of many of the horrors of the world. Tommy wasn’t able to attend his friend’s funeral, and he buried himself into his work after that. But after a time, he kept the promise he’d made to a dead friend and hand delivered a letter, as instructed, to the man’s father. Over a year had passed since James was killed. He’d met with his grieving parent over coffee in a downtown restaurant. A big man in life and stature, a Vietnam Veteran and a retired Air Force Colonel, Mr. O’Connell was an intimidating man. But when Tommy handed him the letter, his posture had softened, immediately knowing what it was.
James O’Connell was an important man, politically connected and a key player in the Military Industrial Complex of Washington, D.C. He was part of the inner circle that kept wars running. Conflict required a lot of equipment, and O’Connell made sure that equipment could be delivered anyplace on the globe as the founder and CEO of a top transport company with access and deep pockets. The conversation was what you’d expect of a soldier reaching out to a fallen friend’s parent… staying off the murky details of how Junior perished during the first days of the 2003 invasion—the reported victim of an errant mortar shell, an unfortunate training accident. O’Connell was grateful for the visit and to hear stories about his only son.
Tommy tried to stay in the lines of a non-disclosure agreement he was bound to, even if he felt guilty lying to the man’s father. The men had official cover as soldiers, and their positions in the Ground Division were so secret that James’s father wasn’t even aware of it. Tommy kept to his word, and kept their true identities a secret.
But there was more to it. O’Connell was a widower and alone; his son was all he had left. He read the letter and understood the frustration in his dead son’s words. Frustrations over the futility of conflict and the direction the military was going; something he’d felt himself when he was a young man serving in a war a world away. It gave the two of them things to talk about, and in a short time they bonded over the loss of James.
Tommy and the colonel talked about the service and how things had changed with a new administration. How the missions they were doing were different now and the enemy less obvious. As the meeting ended, O’Connell took Tommy’s hand and promised him that if he ever needed anything, he would do his best to help. Tommy knew the man was sincere and thanked the colonel for his time.
They hadn’t spoken since, and he wondered if the colonel still felt the same way. Would the promise of support still stand, even with the knowledge of what he was intending to do? Maybe he would after he knew the real reason his son was dead. What he really died for, and what they really did for a living. Tommy looked out the window, watching the passing cars and felt some remorse for using the memory of a friend to try to get help from his grieving father, but he knew he couldn’t do it alone and that Colonel O’Connell had the resources to help him.
The
radio beeped again, a dispatcher asking for the driver’s current location. Tommy scooted to the center of the bench seat and leaned forward against the glass that divided them. “What’s your name?” he asked.
The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror. He held up a name badge with too many letters for Tommy to pronounce. The driver smiled at Tommy’s confusion and said, “Charlie.”
“Charlie, of course.” Tommy grinned back. “How much do you make in a shift, Charlie?”
The driver gave him a puzzled glance then looked down at a sign that said driver has less than $100.00 cash. “I’m not asking to rob you, Charlie. I want to know what it’ll take to get you to turn off that radio and meter for the rest of the night, but tell them you are anywhere but here.”
Charlie’s hands gripped the wheel as he looked out at the highway ahead. Suspiciously, he looked back at Tommy in the mirror and said after a short pause, “Five hundred.”
Tommy nodded and reached into his jacket, flipping out folded bills. He dropped a stack through a slot in the window and let them fall to the front seat. “Here’s five hundred. I’ll give you another five hundred when we get back to the city. Now get on the box and tell them you’re taking a fare across the state and then shut it down.”
Charlie grabbed the bills and flipped through them with his thumb and forefinger before nodding and tucking them into a pocket on the front of his shirt. He picked up the radio handset and spoke quickly. “I have a destination in Maryland. The passenger is willing to pay.”
A voice came over the radio. It was broken but apparent that whoever was on the dispatch end wasn’t happy. Charlie reached over and clicked off the radio and the meter. He looked back at Tommy in the mirror and said, “All is good. You have me for the night, my friend.”
6
Just before midnight, the car pulled into a quiet side street, traveling under walnut trees and alongside a stone wall. Tommy told the driver to stop the car in a dark space between the streetlights. He exited and walked alongside to the driver’s door. “Keep the lights off and take a nice nap. I’ll be back before the sun comes up.”
The colonel’s house was walled in with a high wrought-iron gate. Ancient, boxed, CCTV cameras were at key points along the wall, but mostly focused on approaches to the house. Tommy knew from his visit during the wedding and an impromptu tour from James that the colonel didn’t have a full-time security force. The cameras were attached to a DVR in the basement, and all of the sensors connected to a remote support desk. He followed the sidewalk along the wall and found the spot he was looking for—a tall tree that was allowed to grow too close to the fence.
Without changing his gait, he stepped into the shadow of the tree and leapt to the top of the wall. With no sound, he was over and kneeling in the wet grass on the far side. He sat silently, listening for the wild card—a housekeeper working late or a watchdog he didn’t know about. The house was bathed in low-voltage lighting. The driveway empty, yet well lit. All the home’s windows were concealed in darkness but one—the colonel’s study. The window was cracked and curtains swayed with a slight breeze. Tommy checked his watch again; it was nearly midnight. He’d prefer to meet the old man in his study, rather than his bedroom.
He duck-walked the short distance across the lawn, using the shadows of tall trees for concealment. Finding the perimeter of the home, he followed it to the open window. He squatted then moved to the edge and peered inside.
The study was decorated in hardwood paneling and furniture. Against a wall sat an antique service. A flat-panel TV on another wall was blaring some late-night talk show. In the near corner was a highly polished, walnut desk and behind it, in a leather chair, a snoring Colonel O’Connell. Tommy straightened his knees and stood next to the window. On the corner of the desk in an ashtray was a still-smoking cigar, a tiny trail of smoke wending toward the open window.
He placed his hands under the window’s sash and felt it slide smoothly into the full open position. Looking over his shoulder one more time, he quietly pulled himself through the window, his feet touching the plush carpet as he stepped into the room. The old man in the chair hardly stirred as he crept.
Tommy walked to the front of the large desk. In the center was an empty cereal bowl. At the edge, a half bottle of Aberfeldy and an empty glass explained the colonel’s sound sleep.
He moved to the bar and retrieved a second glass then set it heavily on the desk. The colonel woke with a start and kicked his feet back, nearly falling from the chair. He scrambled forward and reached for a desk drawer until Tommy raised his hand.
“Relax, Colonel, I’m not here to hurt you,” he said.
The old man dropped his arms and squinted at him. Tommy opened the bottle of Scotch and reached over the desk, filling the colonel’s glass, and then his own. As Tommy’s face moved through the low light of a desk lamp, the colonel’s eyes suddenly lit with recognition. “Jesus, Tommy, you need a damn haircut and a shave. What the hell are you doing here?” the old man shouted, snatching the glass and taking a long drink before setting it back down and waving a hand for it to be refilled. “How long has it been? Ten years?”
“Close to that, sir.”
“You nearly gave me a heart attack. Why the hell didn’t you use the door like a normal person?”
Walking to an overstuffed leather chair, Tommy turned and dropped into it. “I’m sorry, sir, but I couldn’t risk anyone seeing me come here.”
“Are you in trouble?”
“No, sir, but I’m looking for it. And when I look, I find it.”
“I see,” the old man said, sipping from his glass.
“Do you?”
The old man shook his head. “Hell no, I don’t. The fuck, Tommy? Explain it to me.”
“I need help getting into Jordan.”
The colonel paused and leaned back in his chair, studying Tommy’s face as if an algebra expression was written on his forehead. “Something wrong with your passport, son?”
“Nobody can know I’m there.”
“What kind of mess are you in? I have people—lawyers—I can help you.” O’Connell pursed his lips and filled his glass before pushing the bottle across the table toward the younger man. “Tell me what you need.”
“They’ve got my sister.”
O’Connell’s expression changed, his brow tightening. “Who does?”
“I don’t know, but I have my suspicions. She was taken in the same region where James was killed.”
The older man squinted and took another sip of the Scotch before exhaling. He sat quietly pondering his response. He took a long sip then slowly swallowed. “James was killed on a training exercise in northern Kuwait just before the invasion. I met his superiors at the funeral. I read the award citation. A stray mortar…” His expression dulled.
“Do you believe that?” Tommy asked.
The old man shook his head, his face changing to sadness. “No, I guess I never did.” He sipped again. “But, Tommy, if that wasn’t the truth, why didn’t you tell me when we met?”
“To protect you.” Tommy bit at his bottom lip. “We did things that people can’t know about. If I told you the truth, they…” He paused, taking another sip from the glass.
“James was a soldier, he knew the risks,” the colonel said, trying to relieve his guilt.
“No, he wasn’t, not in the way you think. None of us were.”
“Then explain it to me. I deserve to know,” he said, his mouth twisting.
Tommy took in a deep breath and held out his glass for another refill. Talking about the death of a friend to the man’s own father was never one of his greater talents. O’Connell leaned in with the bottle and topped off Tommy’s glass. The younger man sat back in the chair, swirling the whisky before taking a long sip, allowing the burn to steel his nerves. He looked across at O’Connell and said, “Have you ever heard of the Ground Division?”
The senior man shook his head and shrugged. “James was a Ranger. He wanted to
be Special Forces. I know he qualified and went to all the schools before his—”
“The Ground Division isn’t military; although, sometimes we pretended to be. We maintained uniforms and rank. We sometimes deployed alongside other units. Those of us in the GD were off the books. The day we signed into the Division, our files were pulled and placed into holding someplace at Langley. When I left the Division, I was slipped back onto the Army’s books then medically retired to maintain my cover. If you dug into my background, it would be full of holes and redacted lines of text. You would find my name in files and places that just wouldn’t make sense.”
“So, you were contractors?”
Tommy shook his head. “More like irregulars… mercenaries.”
“Mercenaries? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Don’t over think it. They jokingly called us the President’s Shock Troops. We existed somewhere in the gray space between the Regular Army and the CIA—for when the President needs something done, something too risky for the Army, or too illegal for the CIA. Something where, if we failed, he wouldn’t have to answer questions on the evening news. Something where, when men died, they could just report it as a training exercise in northern Kuwait.”
The colonel’s expression began to harden. He leaned closer. “Where did it happen?”
“We were never in Kuwait, the way they told it. We started in Jordan then traveled farther north into western Iraq.”
“But James was killed before the invasion.”
Tommy exhaled and took another sip. “That part is true. We were working with a group of Syrian Special Services named the Badawi Brigade. These guys were bad and the furthest thing from special; they were closer to thugs. They were dispatched directly from Damascus under the command of one of their intelligence agents. Our mission was to paint and escort a large convoy of transport trucks across the western border and into Syria.”