by Rick Jones
Kimball pointed to Joshua who was wearing a backpack. Inside were six claymores.
“All right,” Kimball began. “Noah and Jonah will take out the perimeter guards one by one to free up the boundary surrounding the camp. Joshua will then plant the claymores around the perimeter to contain the tangos within the central area. While Joshua is setting the explosives, Isaiah, Jeremiah and I will make our way to the children and deal with the guards there. Questions?”
There were none.
Since everyone was on the same page, Kimball turned to Noah and Jonah. “You’re up.”
Enabling the NVG systems to the face shield of their Kevlar helmets, Noah moved to the east and Jonah to the west.
In the lengthening shadows as night approached, the game was about to begin.
* * *
Ganiru, unlike most members of his team, wasn’t conscripted to be a soldier of Boko Haram. Instead, he enjoyed terminating people by determining who to kill and who not to kill with impunity and godlike decisions. With no conscience to guide or direct him, he was the perfect candidate who had been greeted into the league with open arms. His first weapon to learn outside of an AK-47 was the machete, which he wielded often and with lethality.
As darkness fell, Ganiru could hear the voices of those in camp behind him, laughing and shouting and telling tales of murder and of the future. Even as the sun was setting, there would be a full moon to cast a light over the landscape with the color of whey, giving him decent visibility.
Leaning his rifle against a tree so that he could reach for his pack of cigarettes, Ganiru placed a cigarette in his mouth and lit a match. In the circle of the match’s flame and within the dim glow of its light, a man was standing less than a foot away. He was wearing a military-style helmet with a convex face mask. If he had been any closer, the two might have touched noses. But Ganiru had never heard the man approach, his silence preternatural. Nor did he see him against the background of natural lighting. This thing was a creation of the shadows, this Ganiru was sure of as his eyes started with the shock of discovering that he was not alone.
As the shape lifted a knife that cast a glimmer of orange light against the blade of a knife, Ganiru’s mouth opened to send forward a scream. But he never got the chance as the flame of the match died as quickly as he did.
Nothing but darkness and silence.
* * *
Edewor stood post that faced east. As he stood sentinel, he daydreamed of things that weren’t tied to the movement of Bok Haram. Instead, he created images within his mind’s eye of himself dressed as someone who mattered in life, a man who had power and esteem. Yet here he was in the middle of a hot African desert fighting a war that was not of his choosing or liking. Six years ago, he had been stolen from his village; his parents killed as if their lives had about as much value as insects. Over time he had learned to become a part of the Boko Haram mindset, which started when he was forced to execute people until he became numbed by the act. Now at the age of twenty-two, Edewor Ebhaleleme was no stranger to killing.
Scanning the moonlit landscape while his mind’s eye watched a fantasy play out in his mind, he was drawn back by something small that scurried across the terrain, something nocturnal. And then it was gone, his mind once again slipping into that mode of romanticizing about a life he wished he could have, of tailored suits and fancy cars.
That was when a gloved hand slipped over his mouth and pulled him silently into the shadows behind him. One moment Edewor was there and the next he was gone as quickly as someone who snaps their fingers.
Edewor Ebhaleleme would never dream again.
* * *
One by one, Noah and Jonah quietly took out their opponents and neutralized any future possible threat. When they returned to where the Vatican Knights had gathered in waiting, they confirmed that the perimeter had been cleared.
That was when Kimball galvanized Joshua into action with Noah and Jonah covering him, while Kimball, Isaiah and Jeremiah headed for the location of the imprisoned girls.
Phases Two and Three were now commencing.
* * *
Joshua, a very large man from Germany who had a natural teddy-bear gentleness to his soul, could also be as vicious as a grizzly when he had to be. He was strong and powerful, and for a man of his size, like Kimball, moved with surprising speed and agility. In the thicket of brush that surrounded the camp as members of Boko Haram conversed, sometimes loudly, this boded well for Joshua as he planted the claymores along the camp’s perimeter to keep his enemies contained. Where the bodies of the perimeter guards lay, which marked the equal points where they had been posted from another, Joshua carefully placed the explosives and wiring with the metal faces of the units turned toward the faction. Once the claymores were set, Joshua slid back into the shadows as quietly as he had emerged from them.
* * *
Kimball, Isaiah and Jeremiah were scouting the area where the girls were being kept when Kimball received a call through his earbud. Joshua was free, the claymores set, the exchange receiving a whispered acknowledgement from Kimball through his lip mic.
“The claymores are set,” Kimball informed the others.
Looking over the area they noticed that the girls were tethered together by rope, binding them as a collective.
The guards, two which circled the group with lascivious grins, something Kimball did not appreciate since it spoke volumes as to how these girls were treated or were going to be treated, tormented the victims with sexual threats. The third lay on the ground looking at the stars with his hands clasped behind his head in a makeshift pillow and his rifle close by.
With three Vatican Knights against three members of Boko Haram, but with the moon shining down in the open clearing, the advantage would favor the terrorists who would see the Vatican Knights approach from every angle.
“We move and we move quickly,” Kimball told them. “Make your shots precise and make every round count. Head shots, if possible, then two to center mass. Drop them before they get a chance to turn on the children. Clear?”
In unison from Isaiah and Jeremiah: “Understood.”
“Ready up.”
Along the tree line that surrounded the clearing, the Vatican Knights raised their suppressed firearms to eye level, drew a bead on their assigned targets that were lime-green through the scope, and pressed forward.
* * *
The girls were cowering against the threats of the guard as he circled them with promises of them being raped from dawn to dusk, certainly malicious on the part of the man who suggested such atrocities with relish.
Then from the corner of his eye he saw three shapes that were blacker than black against the feebly lit background close in. Raising a hand to stop their approach, there was a muted burst of gunfire that was followed by a muzzle flash, a single round, which pierced the guard’s hand and carried on through to create a quarter-sized hole that magically appeared against the man’s forehead, and dropped him, the guard falling straight down as quickly as gravity would take him.
The second guard, before he realized what was happening, took a bullet to his head which erupted like a melon, soft and pulpy, with blood and gore splashing upward and outward while moving awkwardly in a drunken dance before falling to the ground.
The third man who was watching the starlight show, after seeing his comrades fall, reached for his weapon, an AK-47. But a muted burst of gunfire that was no louder than a spit ended his attempt to retrieve the weapon.
The children were huddled together, whimpering. Twenty-seven girls that had been saved from a life not worth living.
The Vatican Knights closed in after they scanned the area to make sure it was clear, which it was, and informed the children that they were now safe, that everything would be all right. After cutting the ropes that bound them together, a girl, probably no more than eight, reached up with her fingertips to trace the band of Kimball’s Roman Catholic collar. In English, she said, “God.”
S
he was a beautiful child he thought, with eyes as large as saucers in the moonlight and a smile that melted his heart.
Still tracing the collar with her fingertips, she repeated, “God.”
“Yeah,” he whispered to her. “God.”
With that being said, the child hugged him and planted her head against Kimball’s chest. Though the word she spoke next was muffled, it was quite clear. “God.”
* * *
As Kimball, Isaiah and Jeremiah led the children towards a safer haven, Kimball spoke into his lip mic. “We have the assets,” he informed the others. “Make your way to the extraction point. I repeat, make your way to the extraction point.”
“Copy that.”
By design, the mission went off without a hitch as planned. But like most missions, nothing really worked by design since there was no true formula for success which can predict the interference of the human element.
* * *
When Nchedochukwu had to relieve himself, he grabbed his weapon and headed for the tree line that circled the perimeter of the clearing. People continued to chatter in the background, all voicing their opinions as to the best options to take in order create an Islamic government in Nigeria. But Nchedochukwu detested such talk, always considering it a waste of breath since none of them had the power to direct change. They were simply the foot soldiers who did as commanded.
While stepping into the thicket to relieve himself, he considered having a cigarette with Ganiru, who was stationed close by. After zipping himself up, he called out. “Ganiru?”
No answer.
“Ganiru?”
Silence.
Like a dog that senses great danger, the hairs on the back of his neck stood. “Ganiru?”
When he received no answer, Nchedochukwu raised his weapon and started to work his way through the brush.
Then in a whisper, he said, “Ganiru?”
Nothing.
He stopped in his tracks, listened. Nothing. But there was a scent he recognized all too well. It was the scent of a goat that had recently been butchered. It was the smell of fresh blood.
He took another step forward with the point of his gun pushing aside leaves and branches.
“Ganiru?”
And then he saw the body and the glistening of blood that spanned across the ground against the shine of moonlight. Eyes that were stark white against the darkness indicated a quick and sudden terror, a lasting image that had frozen on Ganiru’s face.
Just as Nchedochukwu called out to his team in warning, with his voice booming enough to carry easily, he turned to join his unit when he tripped a wire. After a click, a claymore went off, sending Nchedochukwu off his feet and into the air, the man dead before he hit the ground.
Others took heed.
* * *
Kimball, Isaiah and Jeremiah were herding the girls towards safety when they heard the explosion. One of the claymores had gone off. Turning, they saw the orange of a fire beginning to take advantage of the surrounding brush, the flames beginning to grow.
Beyond the fire, voices could be heard. Boko Haram was now rising to meet the challenge.
* * *
Joshua, Jonah and Noah hadn’t drawn enough distance from the campsite when the first claymore went off. In fact, they could feel the concussive blast of the explosion, a mild push against their backs. After noting a buildup of flames inside the brush, they ran as fast as they could to the extraction point.
* * *
The explosion had rocked the members of Boko Haram, and right after Nchedochukwu cries. Quickly grabbing their weapons, the faction, now down to eight, began to fire off rounds in the direction of the explosion, the area lighting up with clipped bursts of muzzle flashes.
After they emptied their magazines and swiftly reseated another, they charged into the surrounding brush to find the enemy within. But the enemy had been their own recklessness. A second claymore went off, killing three and wounding two. And then a third and a fourth, the mines wiping out the order before they had a chance to escape the clearing.
* * *
When Kimball reached the extraction point, two helicopters were waiting with their rotors spinning and picking up speed for a quick liftoff. As soon as Kimball approached one of the bay doors, it slid open and a corpsman wearing a helmet lent his hand to help the children aboard. Once the two bays were filled, the Vatican Knights boarded. When they had secured themselves, the choppers lifted and banked to the north.
Down below, as a fire waged, Kimball Hayden watched the flames dance after leading his team on a successful mission.
All twenty-seven children were safe and accounted for.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Vatican Knights Base Camp
Nigeria
After the Vatican Knights landed safely in a zone that was far from the madness of Boko Haram and the Nigerian government, the girls were unloaded and cared for with warm food and clean clothing. Though they were tired, it was paramount to leave the site before the Nigerian team not in alliance with the terrorist group converged on their position. This was their territory, their house, and what the Vatican Knights did was against Nigerian protocols to enter without the government’s permission. When children were involved and the red tape more binding than the ropes that bound them together, decisions had to be made as to who’s calling was higher: that of a dissident leader or the voice of God.
The latter had won out and the children saved.
After Kimball removed his helmet and placed it on a table that was loaded with laptops and mission documents, with the area manned by a team of Jesuit priests, Kimball was approached by a Jesuit who handed him an iPad.
“You’ve a message from the Vatican,” he told him.
Grabbing the unit, Kimball said, “Thanks.” Logging on and hitting an icon, Kimball was redirected to a linkup that was connected to the Ismarsat BGAN system, which was a mobile workstation that as long as it had a line-of-sight to one of the three geostationary satellites to receive a feed from, then the team would have global coverage on a secured line. After typing in a code, a skyped image of Father Auciello, who was one of the co-directors of Vatican Intelligence, appeared on the screen.
“You have something for me, Father?”
Father Auciello was Oxford educated and head of the Jesuits, who ran the operations of Vatican intelligence. He was tall and regal looking with pepper-colored hair and refined features, and when he spoke, he did so with the impression of a highly educated man. The first question was one of concern: “The children?”
“They’re fine.”
“All of them?”
“All twenty-seven. All healthy.”
“Thank God.”
“I’ll provide the report after we bug out of Nigeria,” Kimball told him.
“That won’t be necessary,” stated Father Auciello. “Your presence is needed in Syria along with your team.”
“Syria? We have assets in Syria?”
On screen, the priest nodded. “No doubt you’ve heard of Doctors Without Borders.”
“I have.”
“And no doubt you’ve heard of Father Savino.”
“Only that he was the brother of the Vatican’s Secretary of State.”
“Father Savino was working in service with the physicians to provide aid to those caught within the hot zone of the civil war. Now that the Islamic State is seeing a resurgence, they’re also taking new land to conscript villagers into their ranks.”
“And the reason for the mission?”
“Two days ago, it’s believed that an ISIS faction led by Ahmed Ali, who is the second lieutenant of Junaid Hassad, attacked the DWB camp and took the medical team as hostages, after they killed the wounded. It’s our belief that Father Savino is posing as a physician to spare his life, since Ali has no tolerance for those who worship anything outside the parameters of their religion. If his identity as a priest is discovered, he would most likely be executed.”
“I see.”
“And out of the theater of operation?”
“There’s a cave system located at a terrorist training camp. It’s believed that Ali is taking the medical staff there to serve the ISIS wounded. We’re working with the CIA who has a man on the inside, someone we can use.”
“Meaning that this is going to be a joint operation with Langley.”
“It has to be. Your team goes in to extract Father Savino, the medical staff, and the CIA operative. Your CIA counterpart will gather as much intel as they can regarding future operations.”
“This is not going to be an easy gig,” he told Father Auciello. “To go into an ISIS training camp to extract hostages. It’ll be like crawling into a spider’s web, a sticky mess.”
“The Vatican Knights have met with challenges before. This is simply another to add to your long list.”
“Departure?”
“Immediately. The children will be taken care of, no need to worry about them. The Vatican Knights will be taken to the Green Zone in Iraq where you will meet your CIA counterpart. The situation will be explained in more detail once you get there.”
“Copy that.”
“And Kimball.”
“Yeah.”
“Nice job dealing with the children. And welcome back to the team.”
“It’s good to be back.”
“Godspeed.” And then the connection was severed as the screen presence of Father Auciello faded to a point of light in the center of the monitor, and then gone. Tossing the iPad onto the desk and grabbing his helmet, Kimball called out to his teammates.
The Vatican was once again in need of their services.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Somewhere within the Syrian Theater of Operation
Ahmed Ali’s group, after razing tent city and burning three trucks and commandeering three others, were transporting the physicians and their male staff, along with Father Savino, who posed as a surgeon.