Ottoman Dominion

by Terry Brennan

  Bayard shook his head. “But our enemy believes it. Believes he can win. Believes the power of the box will help him. And he has no intention to surrender. He knows his fate if he fails to overturn God’s plan. So not only does he continue, his schemes are becoming more desperate as his time shortens.

  “We of the brotherhood have been engaged in this battle since our enemies fell from heaven. Our assignment is to disrupt and destroy the plans of the enemy. Do you think this box is the only weapon we have in play, that this is the only time in history when evil has attempted to overthrow the purposes of God? Sometimes, in spite of our efforts—when good men refuse to fight against evil—the plans of the enemy succeed, as they did in Germany seventy years ago. Even now, there are others of my brothers dealing with other threats, forging other weapons in opposing the agents and the intentions of the evil one.

  “But this is your time. This is your assignment. For the Father’s plan and purpose to be fulfilled, you must deliver the box into the hands of the one who wants to destroy you, the Man of Violence, the man with the yellow eyes. You must leave now, before the enemy can fully discern our purpose.”

  Palmyra Parker reached out her hand and put it on Mullaney’s arm. “How …”

  Bayard turned toward Parker. His gaze fell on her like an embrace. “Daughter, fear not. Have faith.” He turned his head toward Mullaney. “Faith is your shield, Guardian; righteousness is your armor; salvation is your protection. Remain within the armor of God. The enemy will try and lure you into your own strength, for you to rely on yourself. If you succumb to his trap, allow pride to cloud your faith, both you and the ambassador will be vulnerable and at risk. Follow God’s plans, not your own. And the brethren will be by your side.”

  Rabi Khanina Street, Old Tel Aviv

  July 23, 3:31 p.m.

  Once again, Meyer Levinson was hunched over in the middle of the bakery van, peering past the shoulder of his tech whiz, as Yoshi tried to plumb the depths of the iPhone in his hand.

  “Child’s play to get beyond the passcode,” Yoshi mumbled to himself, fully knowing that Levinson could hear every word. “Any rookie could have discovered what number was called. But this … now this takes talent.”

  Yoshi had taken the iPhone apart and gently removed the small chip that contained the phone’s GPS identifier. “This is the little buzzard that locates your phone’s position on GPS coordinates.” He looked over his shoulder at Levinson. “You know, when the screen says, ‘Do you want to allow this app to use your location?’ Nobody at the manufacturer will admit to it, but you can reverse the application of this circuit.”

  Comprehension dawned on Levinson as Yoshi removed the side panel from one piece of his equipment. “You mean you can track where that call came from?”

  “Maybe … maybe … maybe,” he mumbled softly as he removed and disconnected wires. He took the chip from the phone and slid it into a slot in the equipment. He fiddled with some other internal pieces, then took a small LCD screen and attached it to the wires he had disconnected. He reached for a toggle switch. “Moment of truth.”

  The LCD screen pulsed, dark-to-light, pulsed again, then cleared. A map emerged, within close proximity to ground level.

  “Where’s that?” asked Levinson, crowding in closer.

  Yoshi tapped the screen several times, pulling back the map’s vision to a higher altitude. “Turkey … Ankara,” he said. Then he tapped the screen a few times again, enlarging the image, moving closer to the surface. A green pointer icon emerged.

  “See that?” Yoshi asked, pointing to an irregular shape in the lower left corner of the screen, not far from the location of the icon. “That’s the citadel, the castle in the old city section of Ankara. And this”—he pointed to the icon—“is the area where the call came from … a couple of klicks northeast of the citadel. Sorry I can’t get more specific than that, but that’s the neighborhood the call came from.” Yoshi heard the click of an iPhone photo being taken. He turned to face Levinson. “Could be the …”

  But Colonel Levinson was already out the back door of the bakery van, sprinting for a nearby Jeep, his iPhone plastered to his ear. “Brian … I think I know where their leader is … I’m on my way to you … minutes out. Wait …”

  “We can’t, Meyer. I’ve got to leave now. Cleveland skipped out on us and went to Turkey. Now he’s been kidnapped by the leader of the Disciples. It’s a straight-up swap … Cleveland for the box. I’ve only got … two hours and twenty minutes to get there, and I’m going to need every one of them … running for a plane now. But you know where their leader is?”

  “We raided the Disciples’ hideout,” said Levinson, catching his breath. “My IT guru tracked a call that came in on one of their phones. The call originated from the area around Ankara Castle, what they call the citadel, in a neighborhood in the old city. I’d bet my last shekel that’s where our enemy is hiding … where he’s holding Cleveland.”

  Gocuk

  July 23, 3:35 p.m.

  A door somewhere in the complex of warehouses was snapping shut with the report of a shotgun. Colonel Matoush pulled the wool blanket closer around his body as he stood in the leeway of an entrance and gazed off to the north. “If anything, it’s gotten worse.”

  The wind still slammed into his body and roared past his ears like jet engines at takeoff, even in this partly protected space.

  “Only eight hours remain until our orders demand that we unleash the weapons,” said the anxious officer to his left.

  “I know what time it is,” snapped Matoush, uttering an age-old Turkish curse. “We can only pray that Allah will calm the wind when it’s time. But if it’s like this, releasing the weapons could be suicide for us. And questionable what else they will accomplish.”

  Matoush glanced once more to the north, then turned to go back inside the warehouse building. He felt the fury of the wind, but he failed to see the diaphanous beings on the northern hilltops, swords drawn, swung in sweeping circles above the silver helmets on their heads.

  40

  Ambassador’s Residence, Tel Aviv

  July 23, 3:38 p.m.

  Mullaney breathed a silent prayer. Finally … a break!

  “Thanks, Meyer. As we speak, a JSOC special ops unit should be dispatched to Ankara to back me up. I’ll make sure your information gets into their hands. Thanks again.”

  “JSOC? Point of the spear—those guys are the best,” admitted Levinson. “Takes a lot for me to say that. Listen. Be careful. Our enemies are blood-lust fanatics. Good luck. I hope both of you get back safely.”

  “Thanks, Meyer. We’re outta here.”

  There was no need to be secretive. In fact, he wanted to be seen … let them know he was on his way.

  All three of them—Mullaney, Hughes, and Parker—hustled down the front steps of the residence and poured into the back of the waiting embassy car, two DSS agents in the front seat. Mullaney placed the leather diplomatic bag on the floor, between his legs, as the car pulled out of the driveway for a quick dash to Ben Gurion Airport.

  “Edwards was fast on his feet,” remarked Hughes. “But my gut is telling me he already had his men in motion. Didn’t take much for him to decide to split his force and tackle both objectives at once.”

  Mullaney shook his head. “Atticus said JSOC was the best. But I didn’t think they had these kinds of resources at their disposal. That Edwards could commandeer a C-130 on the spot is impressive.”

  “What were the colonel’s instructions for you?” asked Parker.

  “Just do what the man on the phone said,” said Mullaney. “Except when I get to the commercial aviation terminal at the Ankara airport, I’m going to need to use the men’s room. Edwards has it all set. I’ll touch base with one of his men there and be out before anything looks fishy. I’m sure the man on the phone will have his spies watching my every move at the airport. By the way …”

  And he turned to look at Hughes on the far side of the back seat. “How ma
ny aircraft can you conjure up in one day? You just happened to put your hands on another superfast jet that just happened to be fueled and waiting?”

  Hughes stretched and leaned back in the seat. She looked tired. Except for her eyes. “Do you know how much money OPEC nations earn in just one day? About one-and-a-half billion dollars a day … six hundred billion dollars this year. The Saudis consume more than thirty percent of the total, nearly two hundred billion dollars a year. My friends in Kuwait earn nearly fifty billion, my former business associates in the UAE earn about sixty billion a year. That money buys a lot of toys for the few guys at the top of the food chain. Those toys are spread out all around the world, and a lot of them are always fueled and ready to go.”

  “But you made one call,” said Parker.

  Hughes nodded contentedly. “Yeah, only one. I wrote and negotiated the contracts that are still keeping these good-old-boys in a realm of luxury this world has seldom seen. They didn’t ask why I wanted the plane. They asked how many I wanted. Helps to have good friends in high places.”

  The car rocked around a tight turn, the heavy diplomatic bag tipping over against his leg. It weighed a ton. The box itself was still in the small but heavyweight blast container that Meyer Levinson’s bomb squad used to encapsulate it after it was recovered in the Old City of Jerusalem. Mullaney reached down and righted the bag as the iPhone in his pocket rang. He was going to ignore it, but …

  Incirlik Air Base, Adana

  July 23, 3:42 p.m.

  Under the windows that surrounded three sides of the Incirlik Control Tower, banks of radar screens broadcast the speed, altitude, and relative positions of nearly a dozen military aircraft, both fixed wing and rotary, that were actively engaged with Incirlik ground control. Colonel Earnest Edwards stood at the rear of the control room, his eyes moving restlessly from one particular video screen to a gray smudge in the sky that was gradually gaining in size and definition. But while his eyes continued their vigil, his mind and voice were responding to the men on the other end of this secure telephone line.

  “Yes, sir, you can depend on us,” said Edwards. “We have enough assets available that we can handle both assignments.”

  “Time is of the essence, Colonel,” said the secretary of defense. “How long before you can muster your forces and get boots on the ground in Turkey?”

  Edwards watched as the oncoming bulk of the Lockheed Martin C-130J Super Hercules transport plane bucked like an unbroken bronco, tossed about like a vapor in the torturously unrelenting wind as it entered its final descent onto Incirlik’s lone, ten-thousand-foot-long concrete runway. He winced with every convoluted contortion. And with how he was going to explain himself.

  “Well, sir … by a stroke of coincidence, Team Black is currently runnin’ a trainin’ operation to see how quickly we can ship men and equipment from one base to another,” said Edwards.

  “Yes?”

  “You asked how long it would take us to get boots on the ground in Turkey?” said Edwards. “Well, sir, they just landed.”

  There was a protracted silence on the other end of the call. Neither the secretary nor the JSOC commander, Lieutenant General Higgins, who was patched in from Fort Bragg, spoke a word. But Edwards knew their minds were spinning.

  “Training exercise? Where are you?” asked the secretary.

  “Incirlik, sir.”

  Once again, silence occupied the airwaves. General Higgins broke it.

  “What kind of force is involved in this exercise, Ernie?”

  “Fifty fighters, four unmarked, blacked-out panel vans with loaded weapons lockers, and stealth comm equipment in a C-130.”

  “You just happen to have a ghost unit landing at Incirlik?” asked General Higgins.

  “Yes, sir. Very fortunate.”

  “Ernie …”

  “With all due respect, sir, I put my men in motion, just in case. General Higgins, not one would have stepped foot outside that plane without orders, sir.”

  A pause. Edwards wondered who would speak next, what would be said. and whether the birds pinned to his shirt would stay there.

  “Well, you’ve got your orders, Colonel,” said General Higgins. “Godspeed.”

  En Route to Ben Gurion Airport, Tel Aviv

  July 23, 3:44 p.m.

  But … it was Abby calling! “Abby?”

  “I’m okay.” Abby’s first words sent Mullaney’s anxiety into overload. Her next words blew the meter’s gaskets. “And the girls are okay. We’re with Doak.”

  Brian Mullaney tried to slow his heartbeat enough to breathe. “What’s going on?”

  “Somebody is following me … us,” said Abby. Her voice was clipped, her words matter-of-fact. Brian could tell she was trying to control her emotions as much as he was trying to control his. “A blue sedan was outside the house this morning, two men in it. The same car, same men were in the parking lot of Calvary Church when I went to drop the girls off at day camp. I kept going and called Doak. We’re at his place.”

  Mullaney ran some time comparisons in his mind. “Day camp this morning? That was hours ago.”

  “A lot’s happened, Brian. Let me explain.”

  As the embassy car weaved through the streets of Tel Aviv toward Ben Gurion Airport, the heavy diplomatic pouch leaning against one leg then the other, Mullaney listed to Abby run through the events of her morning—the letter from Morningstar and its contents; the men in the blue car waiting for her at church; getting to Doak’s safely.

  “Doak told me Morningstar had been killed—I’m really sorry, Brian,” said Abby. “Then he called his barracks, and they sent some troopers to the church. The car was gone, but they’ve got an alert out and they’re still looking. Doak took photos of Morningstar’s letter and sent it to his commander. By the way, I just sent you a text with the letter attached.”

  Mullaney’s mind was spinning, approaching overload. “Okay … thanks. But I don’t know when I’ll have a chance to read it.”

  “Morningstar’s letter said he was headed to a meeting with Nora Carson. He said she was Noah Webster’s closest confidant at the State Department. Doak figures that’s where George was headed when he was killed. Carson lives over here in Virginia, so Doak went and paid her a visit. When she saw the letter and heard about Morningstar’s death, she flipped on Webster. Right now, she’s with the FBI. We’ve only been given short updates, but it appears she’s spilling her guts. Supposedly she has documented proof of Webster’s mis-deeds—no, his crimes—in a safe at the State Department. That will be the FBI’s next stop.”

  “Why has it taken you so long to let me know?”

  “That’s my fault, Brian,” Doak’s voice broke in. “I wanted to intercept Carson before she left for the city, and I had very little time. I had two troopers here with Abby and the girls, but I told them no outside communications until I got back. Didn’t know if those two in the blue car had trackers on Abby’s mobile or could intercept her calls. At that point, caution was the most important element. Sorry.”

  The embassy car pulled through the side gate at Ben Gurion, waved through by Israeli security, as Mullaney analyzed the new information. “Webster killed Morningstar?”

  “Perhaps. Or had him killed,” said Doak.

  “Where’s—

  “Brian,” interrupted Abby, “that’s not all. I called Daddy on his personal phone and got no response. He didn’t answer at home, and he is not at his office. I’m worried. George said Daddy might be in danger too. And I don’t know where he is.”

  The car pulled up alongside the unmarked, white corporate jet. Mullaney looked out the window at the airplane and felt helpless. Useless. Conflicted. He was going off to rescue the ambassador, but he could do nothing to protect his family. Except pray.

  “Abby, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. The ambassador needs me. Doak, I’m leaving them in your hands. Keep my girls safe. I love you, Abby.”

  A Far Corner of Ben Gurion Airport, Tel Aviv

 
; July 23, 3:47 p.m.

  The young man with the scar across his face was hidden at a distance, binoculars held to his eyes with one hand, a cell phone in the other, as he watched Mullaney and the accompanying DSS agents board the small, private jet.

  “Our tormentor is boarding the plane. Two other agents are with him. There is no doubt they are armed. All the men are in place at Güvercinlik.” An F-15 jet with NATO markings but a Turkish pilot was warming its engines not fifty yards from the young man. “I will be waiting for him when he arrives on Turkish soil.”

  “You will in no way harm or impede the Irishman.” The voice of the Turk spewed forth menace. Obedience was the only acceptable response. “You will ensure he gets here directly from the airport, without incident. What he carries is far more important than the man. There will be time to deal with Mullaney.”

  The young man nodded his head. He was confident Mullaney’s neck would be under his blade before this day concluded. In the meantime … “Yes, master. It will be done as you command.”

  As the door to the jet closed across the tarmac, the young man turned off his phone, dropped the binoculars, and sprinted for the open cockpit of the F-15.

  Incirlik Air Base, Adana

  July 23, 3:48 p.m.

  Captain Adam Traynor’s bald head glowed in the overhead lights of the cargo bay as Colonel Earnest Edwards hustled up the loading ramp of the C-130J super transport.

  “Change of plans, Captain,” said Edwards. As he closed the distance to his second-in-command, he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “We’re splittin’ the force, Adam. You take the vans and half of the men and fly on to Güvercinlik, the Turkish army’s air base in central Ankara. You’re on their docket as a NATO trainin’ mission.”

  “Yes, sir. What’s the assignment?”

  “Rescue operation,” said Edwards, drawing the captain away from the loading ramp. “The US Ambassador to Israel, Joseph Cleveland, has been abducted. There’s to be a swap in Ankara. You’ll meet the DSS RSO at Güvercinlik. We’ll get the details worked out en route.