Traveller Manifesto

Turkey – Today.

Rank has its privileges.

As Project Manager of Byzantium Traveller and now a hero of Turkey, none saw any reason why the dashing Colonel Osborne would not have the freedom to use the helicopter allocated to the project. So, accompanied by their little black kitten Nuray had dubbed Tirmik, or ‘Scratch’, because he loved to have his little, bulbous tummy scratched, they winged their way across the great nation of Turkey. Their destination was Konya, in the heart of the nation and south of the capital of Ankara, where Osborne was destined to report after his two weeks of R&R.

In her classic style, Nuray landed the chopper with a final flourish which had Tirmik yowl in complaint. He was kept in a box and had made this surprisingly strident objections evident whenever they performed any manoeuvre that caused his little tummy any upset. As the chopper powered down, Osborne reached out and held Nuray’s hand for a moment and, still wearing helmets and sunglasses, they shared a fond smile. He had to chuckle at the irony. Once the baddest pilot in the Turkish military, the most uncooperative bitch the combined group of Special Forces professionals who made up Byzantium Traveller had ever experienced, now she was his lover.

And much more than cooperative.

After collecting a car, they drove to a well-appointed home not far from the Shrine of Rumi in the heart of the modern city of Konya. There, beneath a pergola draped with grape vines, Osborne and Tirmik were introduced to Nuray’s parents.

Like most Turks, Mr and Mrs Kartal were modern, progressive Europeans who looked no different to most Westerners. They were, as Sufi, considered to be conservative, though that was not immediately apparent. The warm welcome for Osborne by Mama Kartal showed that Nuray, their only daughter, had never before brought a man home. He was amused by how they doted on their brave, independent daughter in a way he would never have imagined.

Her father was an academic and lecturer in History. “Colonel Osborne, you bless our home with your presence,” he exclaimed as the hard soldier was enveloped in a welcoming hug. “None have followed the Byzantium Traveller mission as much as I. Your team are heroes. You must be introduced to our neighbours. They will be delighted!”

“Please, Baba, not now,” Nuray pleaded and her father was immediately mollified, for he was plainly delighted to meet the leader of the team that, he freely admitted, were his idols.

At the admission, Osborne laughed out loud. “Well I hope I don’t disappoint.” He smiled through his rising tide of panic. How could he possibly measure up to their expectations? The Turkish media had lauded the Travellers to a level that would rival deity, so he was always aware of the importance of maintaining a good public presentation. He so hated to be in the public spotlight, but General Babacan had been positive. “Turkey needs heroes,” he had exclaimed after his own promotion ceremony. “Though some of the team may not be Turkish, you are each heroes of Turkey in your own way.”

The welcome feast was superb, a gloriously Turkish repast that continued, plate after plate, to cease only when Nuray’s mother was convinced that each of them was truly stuffed. They then relaxed on the back deck that overlooked their garden, where mandarins and figs grew in profusion. A small flock of chickens scratched and clucked as overseen by a rooster with glorious gold and red plumage. With a sweetened lemon drink in his hand, Nuray by his side and his duties currently on hold, for the first time he could remember, Osborne felt a peace that was truly serene.

Their conversation began with the usual platitudes and Mr Kartal was true to form. Having lived through years with Professor Taylor, Osborne knew historians seemed drawn to explain the history of where they were. “Konya has been a centre of civilisation for millennia,” he explained. “It has been inhabited since at least 3000BC and ruled over by the Hittites, the Sea Peoples, Phrygians, Cimmerians, and Persians. Then there were the Greeks under Alexander the Great, and the Romans, the Byzantines, and of course the Seljuk Turks, Karamanids, and the Ottoman Empire.” He looked at the Australian and gave a small self-depreciating shrug. “But you would know this already, I’m sure.”

“Not all of it, Professor,” replied Osborne with a small belch of overindulged contentment. “We received a thorough overview of the history of Turkey from Professor Taylor and Professor Askar, but we concentrated on the Byzantine Empire, especially Constantinople.”

“Ah! The Transporter. What a device! To travel back one thousand years, what a privilege!” Nuray’s father gushed. “What a shame this could not take our brave Travellers back two or three thousand years. Imagine what that would be like, to explore Konya at the time.”

“Dangerous, I should think,” agreed Osborne. “But it would be an amazing experience, for sure.”

“Such a shame. Has anyone tried this?” He asked innocently.

“No, not possible,” explained Osborne. “The Transporter only takes Travellers back a thousand years.”

“Yes, I understand,” nodded Professor Kartal in excitement. “But has anyone taken a Transporter unit back one thousand years? Perhaps, if you have two Transporters, this will allow you to travel back two thousand years?”

Osborne stopped, struck by the thought. That was a good question. Had anyone ever tried it? They had been so taken with implementing as many Traveller missions as possible, that nobody had thought of using two Transporters at once. But, as with many ideas, it was pushed back as the conversation took another tack. “The quest for learning is exhilarating,” exclaimed Professor Kartal. “The tenets of Sufi strive for learning, and love of course. Through greater knowledge of this earth and the many planes of existence that constitute the universe, then can we draw closer to God.”

There was a pause and Osborne nodded, “Many of the scientists involved with the Transporter are unsure of what the Transporter really does, whether it sends Travellers back in time or to a time on another timeline, or to put it simply, into another dimension or, as you describe it, plane of existence. Nobody really knows,” he thought aloud before he took a sip of his drink. Nuray sat by him, her hand on his arm. He had been mildly amused at Nuray’s behaviour at her family home. She had been the perfect daughter; polite and gracious. He glanced at her eyes, those brown eyes that so held him captivated. What a beauty!

“This belief by the scientists runs in a way very similar to how we understand the universe,” agreed Professor Kartal. “Sufism holds a belief that the universe consists of seven planes of existence, that there is a multidimensionality of space. The subtlest dimension, Zat, is the Abode of God in the aspect of the Creator. The Creator and the whole diversity of His Creation compose the Absolute. The Creator pervades the entire Creation with His Love.”

He continued his discourse as he watched the chickens scratch around the laden fruit trees. “The foundation of Sufism is mahabba, hub, which is love, and the teachings are the hymn to the Divine Love called it tassawuri — love-vision. Love is the power which strengthens one’s feeling of being contained in God. A truly loving Sufi gradually submerges, sinks, and becomes dissolved in the Creator as in his or her Beloved.”

Osborne only nodded and looked again to Nuray who had put some smoulder into her sultry, dark eyes. He felt his ears redden and her mother interrupted with a tap on her daughter’s shoulder. “Time for sweets,” she declared and Nuray reluctantly stood and followed her mother to collect more food.

A cool breeze blew and the grapes swung slightly from the vines above. The men sat quietly, relishing the silence, the breeze, and the gentle hum of life around them. Outside of the walled-off property, a car drove noisily by, but otherwise it was a scene of peaceful tranquillity.

The women soon returned with a platter of Turkish delight and coffees in tiny glasses. The coffee was so numbingly strong Osborne was sure it could take the paint off walls. Just as he loved it. He again looked to Nuray, whose face was flushed in pleasure, obviously from something her mother had said. Her mother had that look that mothers have, the look that says nothing could escape their all-seeing eyes. She placed a welcoming hand on Osborne’s arm as sweets were served and there was a small smile of approval.

Professor Kartal looked at his wife with his own knowing smile. “We welcome you, Colonel Osborne. Welcome to our humble home. From what the papers tell us, you have suffered much along your path of life. Your battle in Aengland, at Giolgrave, is now taught in schools and Universities. You know this?”

Osborne gave a reluctant nod. “Yeah. I’ve heard, Professor,” he conceded.

“Professor?” Nuray’s father exclaimed with a chuckle. “No, my friend, you sound like a student when you call me thus. You are in our family now, under my roof and caring for our daughter. Nuray is no fool. You must call me Baba and my wife, you must call her Anne. It would be my delight.”

“Okay … Baba,” conceded Osborne with an embarrassed nod. “And you must call me Tony.”

“And what of your parents?” asked Professor Kartal. “What do they think of your adventures?”

Osborne gave a small frown. He hadn’t thought of his parents for longer than he could remember. “They’re both dead … Baba. They were farmers and life on the land is difficult. I grew up in the country, on horseback herding cattle. It was a good life, though a hard life.”

There were exclamations of sorrow and condolences. “Then, you must treat us as if we are your family, your parents,” Professor Kartal concluded with a sharp nod, the decision final.

At that, Nuray beamed, took a deep breath and looked away at the chickens. Was that a glimmer of a tear?

“I must ask, dear Tony, a question that is important for us,” continued Professor Kartal.

“Of course,” replied Osborne automatically. He was still concerned with Nuray, but she had turned back and gave a small smile as she also sipped her coffee and took a tiny bite of the Turkish delight. The confection was flavoured with roses and was the best the Australian had ever tasted. It seemed to explode in his mouth with a piquancy that carried him to a higher plane.

“You have been a soldier for many years,” confirmed his host. “What has been your greatest trial?”

“Besides the time I lost my arm to a Viking axe?” questioned Osborne with a frown.

Professor Kartal seemed unperturbed at his response. “Was that your greatest trial?”

The Australian leaned forward in his seat a moment in thought and was carefully watched by his hosts. His arm felt good, though there was a twinge of pain, which had him put more pressure onto the recalcitrant limb.

“The Battle for Giolgrave was hard,” he began. “It was a fulfilling of every iota of training I’ve ever received. You will know, of course, that our training involved extensive unarmed combat and in fighting with the sword. As soldiers, we train to fight. When you fight, people die or get injured. I killed, and I was injured.” He paused a moment in reflection. “Yes, it was hard. Learning to move my arm again was hard. Learning to have hope in life again was hard.” Osborne gave a nod. “But it was not my greatest trial. I had no choice but to fight back, to get through it.”

“And you have,” confirmed Professor Kartal gently.

Osborne only nodded.

“My greatest trial was when I had a choice,” he continued. He took a deep breath. This was not a story told often. “I have, in the past, been posted to various locations in and around the world, including Iraq and Afghanistan. I was engaged in operations often deemed sensitive and I worked with, and sometimes for, the Americans as I was deployed under CENTCOM, which is the United States Central Command.”

He took a sip of the coffee. Damn, it was good! He savoured the deep flavour as it rolled around his tongue a moment before he continued.

“I was seconded for additional training with some of the lads with US Delta, who were proficient in facets of military expertise to which I and the rest of the SASR in Australia had not been sufficiently exposed. We were working in conjunction with a Police commander in a town in Afghanistan when we started to receive troubling reports from some of the local people. Complaints included how the commander had been extorting money, how he had received illegal income from the sale of opium resin, and we even heard of his connections with the Taliban. When we queried our CO, we were told to turn a blind eye to most of the local militia’s indiscretions. It was when we were approached by a mother from the village that we decided to intervene.

He cast a glance at Nuray and then her mother.

“It’s okay, Tony. Please continue,” urged his host quietly.

“She approached our Captain, an American fellow by the name of Captain Dan Conway. He was a good bloke. She had been beaten, her eyes blackened. She said the Police Commander had done it, because he had kidnapped her son to be a sex slave. Now I had heard of this, a practice the locals called bacha bazi, or “’boy play’, where too many Afghan commanders keep underage boys as sex slaves.”

Professor Kartal took a hushed breath, but nodded for Osborne to continue.

“Child abuse, mainly the rape of young boys, has become prevalent in the Afghan military and police and the American military looked the other way. Our orders were not to interfere, but Captain Conway wasn’t the kind of guy to let that sort of thing happen. He was a funny guy, a staunch atheist because he had been forced to go to Church as a kid and as a result turned against the whole religion thing. He was accompanied by a Lieutenant by the name of Anderson, who it turns out ended up in the Saxon Traveller mission. They decided to take matters into their own hands. They found the boy chained to the Police Commander’s bed. I stood guard to make sure none of his men interfered. They knew me, so they knew better. It wasn’t long before they all decided it would be safer to go home.”

“Conway and Anderson gave the Police Commander a beating he’ll never forget and then returned the mother’s son back to her. Captain Conway had become disillusioned, believing that US forces, and their allies, were putting people into power who would do things that were worse than the Taliban.”

Professor Kartal gave a sympathetic nod.

“Nothing happened for about two weeks,” continued Osborne. “Then we were called to HQ and got our arses handed to us by our CO.”

Osborne looked to Nuray’s mother and gave an apologetic shrug of his shoulders. She simply placed a supporting hand on his good arm. He sighed. “Conway and Anderson were shipped back to the US and I was sent home. In the end, Conway quit the military and Anderson, well he was too good an asset to leave sitting around for long. As a punishment, he was sent to a career dead-end, or slow down at least, which was the Traveller project in England. I believe Hunter was sent because of his raw skills, while my involvement was a sign that I was to be set aside for a while as a lesson on not upsetting the status quo with our valued allies.”

“So, that did not go as expected,” nodded Professor Kartal, his eyes sympathetic.

Osborne gave a sharp bark of bitter laughter at the irony. “No, it didn’t go as many would have expected. As a result of Saxon Traveller, without anyone trying, we all became well known and respected.”

Professor Kartal gave a small smile and nodded his approval. “Very!” was all he said, and they turned to enjoy the afternoon.

In the night, while sleeping in separate bedrooms, Osborne received a text message he decided not to read until morning.

It turned out to be a request, rather than an order. Hurley asked that he join Transporter Corp’s Transporter inspection team to Israel.