by Rick Jones
When Kimball entered the monsignor was smiling. “It’s good to see you back on common ground.”
Kimball, who was wearing the uniform of the Vatican Knights—which included a black cleric’s shirt and Roman Catholic collar, a powder-blue beret, military pants and boots—took a seat opposite the monsignor. Noting a lit cigarette pinched between two of the monsignor’s fingers, Kimball said, “I thought you were trying to quit.”
“I am. My method is to cut back on the smokes until there’s nothing left.” The monsignor pointed to an ashtray filled with butts that threatened to spill onto the surface of the stand beside his seat. “I’ve also learned that breaking a bad habit takes time,” he added.
“How long have you been trying to wean yourself off the cigarettes?”
The monsignor inhaled while looking ceilingward, thinking. “Eighteen months, probably closer to two years.”
Kimball laughed at this.
Pinching out the head of the cigarette and adding it to the collection in the tray, the monsignor wasted no time in lighting up another. After pinning Kimball with gentle eyes and a kind smile, the monsignor asked, “How do you feel, Kimball?”
“I feel fine. Back to full strength.”
“That’s not what I mean . . . How do you feel?”
The monsignor was a psychologist who handled the mental aspects of those who found themselves in spiritual disrepair while in service to God, and the guilt that weighed on them. When the monsignor asked Kimball about his welfare, it was purely on a psychological level.
“I’m good,” he answered.
“Are you really?”
“Do you want me to tell you I’m not?”
“I want you to tell me the truth. Tell me about the time you visited the tombs. When you visited the crypts of Bonasero Vessucci and Leviticus.”
Kimball readjusted himself in the chair, the first sign of uneasiness. “I visited Bonasero’s tomb, as always; kissed the marble, as always; said my piece to him, as always.”
“And Leviticus?”
Kimball ran a tongue over drying lips. And then: “I—” He cut himself off.
“You what?”
“I don’t remember him. I want to. But I have no recollection of him at all. I wish I did since everyone tells me that we were close, almost like brothers.”
The monsignor nodded. “You were close, Kimball. And I’m surprised that you continue to have gaps in your memory. These vacant spaces are simply not filling in as they should. It was the physician’s belief that these losses may be long term, perhaps forever. It was my hope that you would become whole not only in body . . . but also in mind. Perhaps this is not to be.”
“Are you worried about that?”
“I would be worried, Kimball, if you had an episode while on the field, a sudden loss of memory as to who you are or what you were doing at the moment.”
“I’ve had no such episodes. No headaches. And all the CT and MRI scans show no damage outside of the initial trauma.”
“That may be true, Kimball. But the brain is a complicated organ that holds many mysteries. And sometimes there’s no key to unlock the door to look inside and unravel these secrets. What I’m suggesting is that we monitor you a bit longer. Let’s wait and see if there is a ticking timebomb ready to go off. I would hate to see you push yourself into a state that could have been prevented.”
“Like what?”
“Uncontrollable rage. The propensity of making poor judgments during moments when your judgment needs to be at its best. Forgetfulness.”
This was not something Kimball wanted to hear. He was chomping at the bit to get back into theaters of operation alongside his teammates. “I’m fine,” he told the monsignor.
The monsignor continued to stare at him. From the lit cigarette that was pinched between his fore- and middle finger, a ribbon of smoke rose, curled and climbed ceilingward, the cigarette almost forgotten as it burned down on its own.
After dashing the cigarette in the ashtray with his action causing a few of the old butts to spill onto the tabletop, the monsignor resigned himself to be a therapist who would use methods to make Kimball see the light of his condition.
“I’m going to give you a series of tests,” the monsignor finally said. “Nothing you can’t handle.”
Kimball sighed openly. He hated these moments when the monsignor challenged him and tried to make Kimball see himself through the monsignor’s eyes. “I’m going to check your memory, Kimball, to see how sharp it is. Are you ready?”
“And if I wasn’t?”
The monsignor dismissed his response and said, “Repeat after me in the order I state.” After hesitating, the monsignor said, “Apples, oranges, bananas, grapes.”
Kimball rolled his eyes inwardly. “Apples, oranges, bananas and grapes.”
“Albany, Rome, Boston, Prague, Denver.”
“Albany, Rome, Boston, Prague and Denver.”
“Dogs, bicycles, Fiat, plane, building, stationery.”
This threw Kimball off balance. The monsignor had gone from similar subjects of fruits to cities to a mixture of things, the odd assortment somehow confusing him. “Dogs, bicycles . . . a Fiat . . . a plane . . .” He couldn’t remember the last two. Then he tried again. “Dogs, bicycles, a Fiat . . . a um.”
“It’s all right, Kimball. Head traumas are not to be toyed with. Your memory is not as crisp. And it’s been nearly six months since you came to and these holes remain. Your body, as badly broken as it was, may be sound. But your mind has yet to catch up.”
“So, what are you saying?”
“I’m saying, Kimball, that you may need more time before you hit theaters of operation.”
Kimball could feel an inner rage bubbling to the surface but was able to keep it contained. “I’m…fine.”
“You’ve seen for yourself, Kimball. You can easily manage and dictate to me objects of similarity, but not the objects of difference. Should you be actively engaged in the field where you could find yourself bombarded with different scenarios, you could possibly, as you just proved, freeze up when trying to come to a decision.” The monsignor sighed. “You’re not there yet, Kimball. And I, in good faith, cannot give a full recommendation to the pontiff to clear you fully.”
“Over a stupid little mind game? Are you serious?”
“This stupid little mind game, Kimball, may ultimately save your life. What I gave you was a simple memory task. You failed on your third attempt.”
The monsignor saw Kimball’s brows dip over the bridge of his nose to a sharpened point. It was like watching a fuse burning slowly as the igniting spark made its way to a powder keg that was ready to explode.
“I’m sorry, Kimball. But Isaiah can manage the Vatican Knights until you’re ready. We don’t have to rush you into things.”
“And what if these gaps in my memory remain?”
“We’ll find a solution.”
“That’s not answer enough. What happens to me if these gaps in my memory remain?”
“And the answer, Kimball, is the same: We’ll find a solution.”
“I need to get back onto the fields of contention. That…for me…is medicinal. Not foolish little mind games.”
“I understand your anger—”
Kimball waved a hand at the monsignor to cut him off. “Look, Padre, you’re a good man and I see what you’re trying to do. But my life here as a Vatican Knight is what I do best. It’s who I am. What I am. Even on the battlefield I would be more productive than I would be sitting here talking to you.” Kimball leaned forward in his chair. “I may not be of sound mind the way you want me to be. And my memory may be like Swiss cheese with holes here and there, but my ability to lead and command is still there. And do you want to know why?”
The monsignor did not respond because he accepted this as rhetorical.
“Because I operate on instinct, which there is no greater teacher.” He fell back into his chair. “I have never governed missions based on me
mory sequence of apples, oranges, bananas and grapes. I’ve always based my actions on deductive reasoning . . . which has always been guided by instinct. And you can’t teach instinct.”
The monsignor reached for another smoke.
“If you had fought in the fields, Padre, then you’d understand. There are two types of people on this planet, a mainstay for all creatures. There are those who have a high degree of instinct and those who do not. You, Padre, do not. Why? Because you have never been in a battle with your life on the line. That’s why. Those who let down their guards will eventually suffer the ultimate consequence, survival of the fittest and all that. And I’m still here.” Kimball raised the sleeve of his burned arm to show the monsignor his baptism by fire. “See this?” he asked.
The monsignor wanted to turn away from the disfigurement but didn’t.
“This is the mark of my fate, something I’ve accepted. Something I’ve agreed to pursue after being on the fence for so long as to stay or go.” He lowered the sleeve and buttoned it. “And now you want to take that away from me over a foolish test of apples and oranges?”
“It’s not that simple, Kimball.”
“It’s simple enough. You don’t understand the mind of a soldier. A soldier—all soldiers—operate on pure adrenaline and instinct when it comes to crunch time. There’s no time for second guessing. We don’t sit out there and wonder which is the best way to pursue a situation during a heated moment. There’s no apples, oranges, bananas and grapes out there. We pursue a method of operation from a level of instinct that’s based on a lifetime of fighting to stay alive.” Kimball shook his head in disgust and murmured, “Apples, oranges, bananas and grapes. Idiocy.”
The monsignor began to consider this. He was a psychologist who learned through books and academia. Whereas Kimball had learned his skillsets in battlefields across the globe, which was an obvious ying to the monsignor’s yang.
. . . Apples and oranges . . .
“I may have memory loss,” Kimball told the monsignor softly, “regarding the people in my life. But I have never forgotten my skills and what they were meant for. Wielding a knife the way I used to in the past was no stranger to me. It was like riding a bike. The same with the techniques or martial arts, they came right back. I haven’t forgotten anything about my purpose, Padre. Or what I was built for.”
“These memories may never come back, Kimball.”
“That may be true. But how often do past memories affect the future? Since I came to, I haven’t forgotten anything. And that’s a fact.”
This was a fact, the monsignor considered. Since coming to, Kimball’s mind remained sharp.
“Trust me, Padre, we’re all fallible because we have weaknesses which no man is without. If I fail in the field sometime down the road, it’s not because of who I can or cannot remember. It’s because I was bested by my enemy because my enemy had the advantage. But if I know my teammates and what they’re capable of, which I most certainly do, and I have my instinctive wits to guide me, then I’m good.” Kimball leaned forward in his chair to add one final emphasis. “Release me.”
The monsignor locked eyes with Kimball, the two in a stare down of wills. After an uncomfortable pause between them, the monsignor relinquished his stance. “I hope I’m doing the right thing,” he said while grabbing a paper close to the ashtray. After blowing away a few errant ashes from the page and grabbing a pen from his shirt pocket, the monsignor signed off on Kimball’s condition and released him to full duty. Handing off the document to Kimball, he added, “Don’t get yourself killed. I’d be questioning this move for the rest of my life if you did.”
Kimball accepted the paper as if it was a cherished parchment. “Thank you, Padre. You’re doing the right thing here. I am good to go.”
“So you tell me.”
When Kimball got to his feet he towered over the cleric, who remained seated. Extending his hand for the monsignor to take, Kimball shook the monsignor’s hand by giving it a few hardy pumps. “Thank you again, Padre.”
“Stop calling me, Padre. I told you that before. And, Kimball—”
“Yeah.”
“Godspeed and welcome back.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Wastelands of Syria
Faizan had never felt so low, so corrupt, or so inhuman as he sat within the shadows of the cave with his back against the wall and a lantern by his side. In a circle of light that was minimal, Faizan tried to get a grasp of what he had been forced to do, then questioned his behavior as being something that was less than human.
. . . You had no choice . . .
. . . There’s always a choice . . .
. . . True. But you made the only choice you could . . .
. . . Did I? . . .
. . . If you did not follow through, you would have suffered the same fate . . .
. . . Still . . .
. . . The last thing you wanted to do was to compromise your position . . .
. . . Still . . .
. . . The sacrifice of the one is better than the sacrifice of the many . . .
The sigh that Faizan released was more of a rattle that came from deep inside his chest. Then he raised his hands before his eyes and slowly comprehended that they were coated with Omar’s blood, though in the soft lighting it appeared as black as tar. Then he flexed his fingers not really knowing why, until he realized that he wanted to see if they operated the same way as they did without the blood. They did.
When Qadir called him forward and handed him the knife, he looked into the one open eye of Omar and saw a dread he’d never seen before. That one eye which was surrounded by crusted blood begged silently for a reprieve.
. . . Too late, kid . . . Apparently, you’ve been judged by a jury of your peers and been selected for execution . . .
Words did not have to be spoken at this juncture. A simple locking of their eyes was enough to transmit what was about to happen, with this symbiotic tie between them conveying what had to be done . . . What will be done.
. . . The sacrifice of the one is better than the sacrifice of the many . . .
. . . The last thing you want to do is to compromise your position . . .
With the threats and goading from Qadir, Faizan took position behind Omar, who openly begged for forgiveness, pulled his head back, and reluctantly ran the blade across his throat. In the most difficult two minutes of his life—two minutes that will forever haunt him over a lifetime—he managed to separate Omar’s head from his body and with an even greater reluctance he held the head high for all to see.
It was here as he held the head in such a way that that one eye, now at half-mast, looked at him critically. Feeling his stomach clench into a slick fist, he immediately dropped the head to the dust before his feet, and watched it teeter back and forth until it came to a complete stop. Still, that one eye continued to look at him with cruel accusation.
“I had no choice,” Faizan whispered to himself, while staring at his hands that were the color of absolute darkness. “I had no choice.”
The hands appeared alien to him, the deep red that appeared black were now the gloves of a monster.
Henry Faizan, who had infiltrated the ISIS camp masked as Jinan Samara and a man dedicated to Allah, needed to sob as a means of catharsis. But here, to see a man cry was considered a grave weakness. So, after letting his blood-stained hands fall to his side, Faizan closed his eyes to fight back the sting of tears and won the challenge.
PART TWO
SIX WEEKS LATER
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Somewhere within the Syrian Theater of Operation
Ahmed Ali was a simple tool of a larger establishment and perhaps its most lethal. While Qadir and Alfarsi ran operations at the training camp, Ali was marching his team across the landscape. Villages had been conquered with little to no challenge with the children having been handed a fate that was not of their choosing, but by the choosing of a madman. Stone huts were leveled, and columns of smo
ke rose in evidence that Ali had come and gone with the razing a signature of his tyranny. And not only was Ali on the hunt for fresh recruits, he was also taking new ground to establish a central caliphate.
With Turkish troops far to the north and American troops diluted to near nonexistence, Ali moved freely across the terrain and at will. While his unit was moving through Syria, they came upon a camp that was more like a city of tents. At the perimeter of this ambulatory center was a motor pool of six trucks, all which were military vehicles covered by canvas tarps and essential for a quick departure.
From a hillside that overlooked the camp, Ahmed Ali kept a watchful eye with a pair of binoculars as Akeem Karim, who was a markedly lanky individual who stood beside Ali, asked, “Americans?”
Ali nodded with the binoculars still at his eyes. “No,” he said. “On the canvas of the trucks,” he added, “three letters: DWB.” He lowered the glasses. “Doctors Without Borders.”
“Perhaps an American trap to draw us in, yes?”
Another nod and denial by Ali. “The Americans are too busy worrying about what the Iranians will do next. And the occupation in Syria is no longer a concern of the United States but a concern of the Russians, who are now the puppet masters of the Turkish army to create a buffer zone along Turkey’s border. This group—” Ali pointed to the campsite “— are here to aid victims of the civil war.” Then the corner of Ali’s lip curled into a half smile. “Perhaps these people would do best if they served the wounded of our organization; to aid those who have been wounded during Allah’s quest for one rule under one God.”
“Do you see any military personnel?” Akeem asked him.
Ali raised the glasses and did another search. “No. Nothing. A few people milling about the tents wearing medical attire. Scrubs I believe they’re called.”
When Ali finally lowered the binoculars, Akeem could see the wheels turning in his leader’s mind, could see the thoughtful cogs rolling. Then: “I can see that you have already decided upon your next course of action, Ahmed.” Akeem looked upon the camp. “You want the physicians.”