Rise of the Giants: The Guild of Deacons, Book 1

by James MacGhil

  “Roger that, First Sergeant. Heard all the stories about his matches over the years. And I’ve been hoping to go a couple rounds with him since you guys got here six months ago. I mean — he’s kind of a boxing legend.“

  “You’re serious,” Tony said skeptically.

  “I am, First Sergeant. With the QRF rotating back to the states in a couple days — this may be my last chance.”

  Erupting in a hearty laughter, it seemed that Tony spit out all the coffee that he had in his mouth as it sprayed against the side of my tent.

  “Are you shitt’n me?” He said amidst persistent chuckles. “You’ve heard the stories, eh? Have you ever seen the guy fight?”

  “Well, No,” Willis replied clearly insulted. “But I’m pretty sure I can hold my own. Golden Gloves — four years running.”

  “Shit, Willis. You got some serious balls. I’ll give you that,” Tony grumbled. “There’s not a Ranger in this compound that would step into the ring with Captain Robinson without a gun pressed to their head. Not a Ranger in the whole goddamn Army that would do it if they have any sense about them. The guy’s a goddamn machine — built like a brick shit house and faster than you can imagine.”

  “Come on, First Sergeant,” Willis said clearly unconvinced. “All those stories can’t be true. I mean —”

  “True?” Tony scoffed. “Shit, He’s the only frigg’n guy in the history of West Point they banned from competitive boxing. Why? Because he put too many cadets in the goddamn hospital. That’s true. And just last year he knocked out the post champ of Fort Benning in half a round. Fight lasted all of thirty seconds — also true — saw the whole damn thing.” Pausing for a slurp of joe, he said, “Never had a match go longer than a minute. Goddamn fact. He floats around the ring like a ghost. Hits like a fucking sledgehammer. Absolutely fearless. Never seen anything like it.”

  “But if he’s that good, why doesn’t he fight more?” Willis impatiently blurted out.

  “Because it’s not important to him,” Tony grumbled. “Not worth the time.”

  “I don’t get it, First Sergeant. What is?”

  “The mission,” he replied in a sober tone. “The mission and his men. Everything else is just noise.”

  Figuring Sergeant Willis had enough brow beating for the moment, I pulled on my uniform, grabbed my coffee mug, and stepped out into the chill morning air.

  “Morning gents,” I said pointing my mug at Willis. “Is that the good shit you got there, Sarge? Fill me up.”

  Clearly not expecting me to stroll out of the tent at that particular moment, a startled Willis dropped the thermos of precious high octane java and stood there, momentarily speechless, as it quickly drained into the frost-hardened mud at our feet.

  “That’s a damn shame,” I said glancing down at the spilled liquid and holding back a smile. “You alright, Willis?”

  “I’m fine, sir,” he replied somewhat embarrassed. “Sorry about that.”

  “Well, I guess if there’s no coffee to be had I’ll get on with my workout,” I said shaking my head while giving Tony a wink. “I haven’t boxed in a couple weeks. Think I’ll go a couple rounds with McCormick before I go running. Gotta stay sharp.”

  “Not this morning, sir. The LT’s on patrol,” Tony said with a shit-eating grin. “Won’t be back until tonight. And I don’t think he’s fully recovered from the last time you sparred with him. Still has that twitch in his left eye. Piss’n blood. Forgets where he is every couple days. And his jaw never set quite right. Kind of droops, poor bastard.”

  “Shit. That’s right. Hey Willis, I heard you box. You up for going a few rounds?”

  “That’s a great idea, sir,” Tony grumbled before Willis had the opportunity to answer. “Sergeant Willis, here, is a genuine boxing legend. Just explaining how he’s been dying to knock your sorry ass all over the ring. Golden Gloves six years running.”

  “Actually,” Willis said starting to backpedal, “It was only four years and —”

  “Ah, Hell. No need to be modest, Sergeant,” Tony said with a mischievous smile. “Give’m hell. No mercy.” Leaning closer to Willis, he muttered under his breath, “I’ll go wake up the medics. Get a couple ice packs. Maybe a stretcher. Some of those smelling salts too. You know, just in case.”

  He then turned and walked toward the other side of the compound shaking his head in laughter.

  “No, sir,” Willis said as all the color instantly drained from his face. “That’s not what I said — I mean I might have — but it’s not what I meant. All I meant was —”

  “It’s Ok, Willis. I get it. You got skills,” I said with perfect deadpan delivery. “Let’s just hope I can last the first round. It’s not often I get to box with someone of your caliber out here.”

  “I don’t think this is a good idea, sir,” he replied anxiously. “I mean, it’s cold and I need to stretch and — I actually worked out last night so I’m pretty tired this morning — and I left my gloves back at Task Force. Another time maybe. How about next month?”

  “Come on, Sarge,” I replied with a wide smile. “You know we’re heading stateside in a couple days. Let’s do this. I’m not afraid of a good ass kicking. I’ll grab some gloves and headgear. Get loosened up. Be right back.“

  As I turned to walk into my tent, the look of utter dread on his face was priceless. Not able to keep a straight face any longer, I started laughing and gave him a slap on the shoulder.

  “I’m just screwing around, Willis. Besides, I can’t have my men see you knock the shit out of me. Be bad for my image and all. We can spar some other time. Deal?”

  “Damn, sir,” he said with sigh of relief. “You had me going there for a minute. Think I’m all set. Let’s forget this whole boxing discussion ever happened.”

  “Fair enough,” I replied with a modest chuckle. Switching topics I asked, “Hey, did I hear you mention that the Padre and Doc Kelly were inbound?”

  “Roger that, sir. They were loading up their hummer when I pulled out of Task Force this morning. Father Watson said to let you know they’d be stopping by en route to the Pole.”

  “The Pole?” I scoffed. “Why in the fuck would they be going to the Pole? Are you sure about that?”

  “Yes, sir,” he replied. “Father Watson said they received an urgent radio call for help last night. He was gassing up one of the hummers and loading it with medical supplies when I pulled out a couple hours ago.”

  Tony walked back to our position as Willis bent down to pick up his dirt covered thermos and began to wipe off the mud with his sleeve. As we traded intense glances as to what possible business Father Watson could have in Brezovo Polje, the radio clipped to his vest cackled to life, announcing that a Humvee was approaching the gate to the compound.

  “Roger that,” Tony barked into the mic. “Be right there.” Turning to me, he said, “Looks like the Padre and Doc just showed up. Let’s go find out what the hell’s going on here.”

  “You’re reading my mind, Big Sarge,” I muttered with a mild smirk, fully realizing that the moniker of ‘Big Sarge’ really went up Tony’s ass sideways.

  “Sir,” he said as irritation flickered across his weathered face, “Can I ask you something?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “How many frigg’n times do I have to tell you to quit with that Big Sarge shit?”

  “At least one more, First Sergeant,” I smugly replied. “Two tops.”

  Chapter 3

  Leaving Serge ant Willis to go about his business, Tony and I started across the compound to the front gate. The QRF compound, our humble home for the past six months, was not particularly large but it was built like a veritable Fort Frigg’n Knox tucked into the Bosnian countryside. Home to eighteen of America’s finest at any given point in time, it was bordered by twelve foot cement walls constructed to withstand a direct blast from a 105mm howitzer and topped with a rather unfriendly triple strand of concertina wire.

  The inner perimeter was lined with s
everal GP Medium tents, a bunker where we stored ammo and weapons, and a wooden shack that served as our tactical operations center. It wasn’t much but it did its job. Amidst missions and patrols, I rotated all the boys out to a secured annex on the main Task Force compound in Brcko, on three-day stints to rest up, get some real chow and enjoy a hot shower. Tony and I stayed here. Always.

  As we walked past the tent where we housed our weight bench and gym equipment, I was instantly pissed at myself for oversleeping and missing my morning workout. Making the mental note to get my sorry ass to the gym later in the day at some point, I looked up to see Father Watson and Doc Kelly walk through the front gate with Sergeant First Class Lucas by their side.

  “Hey sir, Look who I found probing the perimeter,” Luke quipped in his signature smart-ass tone. “I thought the Swedish bikini team was in town again, but then I saw the combat boots and Red Sox cap and realized it was only Doc Kelly.” Turning toward Erin with a shit-eating grin stretched across his face, he said, “Hey Doc, I think I may have pulled my groin muscle on patrol last night. You mind taking a look at it? Might need a good rub down.”

  “No Problem, Sergeant,” Erin snidely replied, fully indoctrinated to the ill-fated Ranger sense of humor. “Let me get some tweezers and a magnifying glass. Be right with you.”

  As the surrounding crowd burst into laughter at Luke’s expense, she said, “Funny how every time I stop by, your genitals seem to be the subject of a different medical condition. Are you having sex with animals again? That would explain the herd of cowering sheep we saw on the way in here.”

  Turning her attention toward me with a mischievous smile, she said, “You know Captain, you should really keep a closer eye on your men. Poor Lucas here may require another round of vaccinations. You know how he hates needles. Maybe we should just have him neutered and be done with it.”

  “Ok. Ok, Doc,” Luke conceded realizing he was bested yet again. “Good one. As usual, always a pleasure to see you. And you too, Padre.”

  “Shit Lucas, You got off easy,” Tony said not missing an opportunity to get in on the fun. “If the Doc beats you in arm wrestling again you’ll have to hand over your Ranger tab and go work in the motor pool.” Grinning at Erin ear to ear, he casually tossed in, “No offense, Doc.”

  “None taken, Big Sarge,” she shot back. “Although, I seem to remember beating your sorry ass a few times. Or was that just your ‘old football injury’ acting up again? Difficult to remember.”

  The grin instantly dropped from Tony’s face.

  As per her usual fiery demeanor, the Doc was on a roll. Verbally bitchslapping Luke and Tony within thirty seconds of stepping foot in the compound was some impressive shit. I guess that’s why everybody liked her.

  Erin Kelly was hell on wheels. All of five foot two if wearing a pair of combat boots, which she did most always. Once you got beyond the petite frame, hypnotic brown eyes, inviting olive skin, and flowing chestnut hair most often pulled into a tight ponytail poking out the back of a baseball cap, you quickly learned she took shit from no man, woman, or beast. Despite her raw, striking beauty she could drink most Rangers under the table, beat them at arm wrestling, and out shoot all but a few.

  From Boston, a renowned cardiothoracic surgeon back in the civilian world, Erin turned her back on it all a year ago and shipped out to Bosnia with the Red Cross. Her reasons for doing so were her own, and it wasn’t a topic you visited with her more than once.

  Whatever the reason, I couldn’t care. Erin was good people — and I might be slightly infatuated with her. That’s a story for another time, however. Army Rangers are bereft of feelings in a combat zone.

  You know that. Everybody knows that.

  “Now that the pleasantries are over,” I said breaking into the conversation, “Either one of you care to explain what possible business you have in Brezovo Polje that you don’t expect to end in tears?”

  “And a good morning to you too, Captain,” Father Watson replied stepping toward me with a somewhat amused look on his face as he placed his hand on my shoulder. “Care to offer an aging servant of the Lord a cup of that famous QRF coffee? I’ve been thinking about it all the way out here.”

  Walking right past me in the direction of the mess tent, I figured it best to follow. It seemed the Padre wanted to speak privately. He could’ve picked a better cover story though. Everybody knows our coffee blows.

  Even the sheep.

  Despite the fact we didn’t do much actual cooking in the mess tent, we did keep a couple of industrial strength coffee percolators in there. Tony usually made the morning brew, which generally tasted something like turpentine mixed with — well, mixed with more turpentine. It was, however, hot as hell and had a general brownish appearance, so we drank it.

  Army coffee, as a matter of practice, tasted like shit. I was convinced it was written in a regulation somewhere. That didn’t keep Father Watson from grabbing a styrofoam cup and helping himself to a man-sized dose of the menacing dark liquid.

  “You sure you want to go there, Padre? The First Sergeant’s coffee isn’t for the weak or faint hearted. The hand of God himself may not protect you from that shit.”

  “Thank you for the concern Dean, but I’ll take my chances,” he replied as his face broke into a mild grin. Taking a cautious sip, he said, “On second thought, maybe I’ll let it cool for a moment — perhaps a very long moment.”

  Reaching into his jacket he produced a silver flask and tipped it my direction like he was proposing a toast. As he unscrewed the cap and took a healthy pull, he muttered, “Amen.”

  Father Watson had devoted the past five years of his life to missionary work in the Balkans. He claimed that he was summoned here to fulfill the will of God. Don’t know that I agreed with him on the subject, but in many long discussions at the QRF compound I’d come to respect the hell out of the man regardless. Never been one for organized religion but the Padre was the real deal. And the guy could hold his liquor. He was alright in my book.

  “Fair enough,” I said amidst a chuckle. “So what’s on your mind, Father? Are you serious about this venture into Brezovo Polje? If I may be so bold — That’s one epically bad fucking idea. No way in hell you’re going in without us. That’s nonnegotiable.”

  The Padre raised his right hand and nodded his head in a ‘Yeah OK’ type of motion. “Before we discuss that, I would like to hear about your visions. Are you still experiencing the dream?”

  Despite having the patience of a saint, Father Watson was also one stubborn bastard, and it seemed he was clamming up about his motives in Brezovo Polje until we chatted about my dream. Realizing I’d have to momentarily acquiesce, I replied, “I am. Every night. Wish I could say otherwise. Always the same. Strange and unusual. No beer. No women. Satisfied?”

  Father Watson was the sole confidant I entrusted with the knowledge of my recurring dream and its insane content. Figured, being of a somewhat biblical nature, he might be able to shed some light on what the hell it all meant. Or better yet, maybe convince me that I wasn’t completely losing my mind. Aside from being extremely curious, he’d unfortunately not done either.

  He told me to have faith. That the true meaning would be revealed in due time. As if a dream about stonings, giants, and a dude in a dark cloak with a flaming sword had any ‘true meaning’ beside that of the guy conjuring the images being a total whack job. I also felt like he was holding back on me but I trusted his judgment just the same. It did, however, make me wonder what the hell was in that flask of his. Must have been some good shit.

  “Not quite,” he replied tucking his flask back into his jacket pocket as he fixed me with an intense glance. “Have you discerned any further details since last we spoke? Perhaps a name?”

  “Matter of fact I have,” I replied thinking his timing was a bit suspect. “Last night. Got a couple. The commander of the invading army. My cloaked dream avatar buddy called him Constantine.”

  “Constantine?” He gasped. “A
re you certain?”

  “Yep. He called him by name a couple times during the conversation in the tent. It was loud and clear this time. And the guy with the crazy eyes. He called him Hazel or Zazel - something like that. Said we he was an —”

  “An angel,” he said cutting me off in mid-sentence. “Azazel. One of God’s chosen. Fallen from grace.”

  Abruptly turning and starting to pace throughout the tent, he raised a hand to his chin in thought, and muttered, “That is interesting. Was there anything else?”

  “One more. The cloaked mystery man himself. Although I prefer Cloakboy, I think his name is actually Deacon. Although, that sounds more like a flannel shirt wearing country singer or a truck driver than a first century —”

  “You heard him referred to as Deacon?” He said cutting me off again as his eyes lit up.

  “I did,” I muttered with a mildly annoyed look. “Prior to the stoning and again at the battle. This making any sense to you?”

  “Deacon is not a name, Dean,” the Padre replied completely ignoring my question. “It’s a title.”

  Returning to his anxious pacing routine, he produced the flask from his pocket and helped himself to yet another healthy swig.

  “A title — Like a pastor? A church deacon? That doesn’t make any frigg’n sense.”

  “By definition, the word deacon simply means servant,” he said stopping in mid stride as he looked directly at me. “However, in this case I believe we are talking about a church deacon. The church deacon. First of the original seven. Falsely accused and martyred.”

  “Sorry. Don’t get it,” I said completely confused as to where this conversation was going and why the Padre was worked up enough to start popping a cork this early in the morning. “Why is this relevant?”

  “Tell me Dean, did you see this?” He asked as if he didn’t hear a word I’d just said.

  As he finished speaking, the Padre curled his left hand into a fist and held it outward displaying the signet ring he wore on his index finger. His hand was shaking from what I assumed was excitement. The face of the ring was etched with a perfect circle encasing a triangle that contained a prominent symbol. An ‘X’ with a ‘P’ struck through the center.