DARK ZEAL (COIL Book 5)

by D. I. Telbat

  What Readers are Saying

  "I just finished Dark Zeal. Think this may have been THE BEST."–Suzanne O.

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  "Just finished reading book 5 in the coil series. Once again a fantastic read."–C.R.

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  "I have read all your coil series and find them exciting and true to the truth.

  Dark Zeal was wonderful."–Kathryan

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  DARK ZEAL

  Book FIVE in The COIL Series

  D.I. Telbat

  https://ditelbat.com

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  Copyright © 2014 ~ D.I. Telbat

  All rights reserved

  Updated 2017

  Cover Design by Streetlight Graphics

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  There is no redemption without sacrifice.

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  FREE PDF Downloads!

  Get your FREE Dark Zeal Maps at

  ~ ditelbat.com/dark-zeal-maps/ ~

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  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, organizations, ministries, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

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  Dedication

  To God's people

  inside and outside Gaza.

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  Table of Contents

  What Readers are Saying

  Title and Copyright

  Free Downloads

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Thirty

  Conclusion

  Endnotes: Christian Aid Mission

  Character Sketch

  Other Books

  About the Author

  BONUS Chapter One: Distant Contact, Book One of The COIL Legacy

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  Prologue

  Gaza City

  Gaza City seemed peaceful that morning. The sun was shining and there was a breeze drifting off the Mediterranean Sea. Children walked with their parents down the street and a woman hung laundry on a clothesline.

  The morning was interrupted by a man crossing the street with a weapon in hand. Then three more soldiers crossed, with ten others behind them, each carrying a rifle or RPG launcher.

  Sohayb Hassad, nephew of the great Hamas tactician, Crac Hassad, was their leader. None of them wore traditional Palestinian clothes, and their rifles weren't the inaccurate AK-47s their allies usually smuggled to them. Rather, they wore stolen IDF uniforms and their weapons had also been taken from Israel Defense Force captives.

  "This street!" Sohayb yelled at his men, some of them only in their teens. "Spread out and hide!"

  He stood at the corner of a bombed building that had two crumbling walls still standing. His men dispersed along the street to do what they had been trained to do: ambush, maim, kill—and when necessary, die. The Palestinian civilians who were present knew the signs of impending conflict. Children ran with their parents for cover, and a woman who carried a bucket dared walk no farther—nor leave her bucket behind. Sohayb watched her crouch behind an overflowing dumpster to wait for the violence to end.

  With his men hidden, Sohayb dropped to the ground and wiggled under the rusty hood of a car. He steadied his breathing and prayed to Allah that the blood shed this morning would bring him honor. In moments, Sohayb would kill as he had killed before. The bodies of the dead would be found with Israeli bullets in them. The world would blame Israel as they had blamed Israel before.

  Uncle Crac had told Sohayb to leave someone alive to point the finger at Israel, but everyone else could die. It didn't matter that the convoy they were about to ambush were UN observers, many of them sympathetic toward the Palestinian cause. An infidel was worthy only of death, and anyone who didn't fight the Jew and Christian was an enemy of Allah.

  Sohayb waited for the convoy to rumble down the quiet street. Nothing on earth would take away his hatred for Israel and Westerners. They had killed his father, mother, and sisters. Nothing on earth could remove his lust for blood and vengeance. Nothing on earth . . .

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  Chapter One

  Eastern Mediterranean / Gaza

  An explosion lit the night sky. Far away, Gaza City was illuminated by the flash. Shrapnel in the form of sparks showered the low clouds like a grotesque fireworks celebration. Corban James Dowler stopped paddling the sea kayak and counted the seconds until he heard the rumble of the precision missile's detonation. Five seconds. Continuing toward the bombarded city, he knew he was still over a mile from the beach.

  Though nearly sixty years old, well under six feet, and soft around the middle, Corban's strokes with the paddle were still powerful, his aging muscles recalling rigorous conflict of recent years.

  He stopped paddling again. An Israeli Sa'ar 4.5 class missile boat four hundred yards to the north fired a volley inland, punishing Hamas terrorists who were probably spotted by an Israeli Hermes drone far overhead. Corban hoped he couldn't be seen in his small carbon-fiber kayak. Though he wasn't an enemy of Israel, his mission would be more easily executed if the Israeli Defense Forces, also known as the IDF, didn't interfere.

  The wind shifted and Corban gagged. Raw sewage from al-Shati and Jabalia refugee camps had been dumping into the Mediterranean Sea for months. Due to lack of electricity, fuel, and spare parts, Gaza's treatment plants and sewage management systems had been abandoned. Israel had been forced to tighten the blockade on the narrow Palestinian strip of land, and Hamas and other terrorist organizations seemed committed to taking every civilian in Gaza down with them.

  Whatever the odor or risk of disease, Corban had to push through it. Like other missions, this one was more important than his personal safety.

  Corban drifted in the dark current, feeling his cargo of two forty-pound waterproof packs fastened behind him. Lives depended on their immediate delivery—even if it meant walking into the barrels of Hamas rifles.

  When he began paddling again, he was careful to breathe through his mouth. The stench was overwhelming, seeming to penetrate his dry suit and cling to his skin and hair.

  Twenty minutes later, Corban rode a wave onto a sandy but littered beach. Careful not to tip his cargo into the pollution, he stepped out of the kayak and dragged it beyond the high tide mark. He set the narrow boat against a retaining wall that once supported a thriving restaurant. If he needed to exfiltrate by sea, he doubted the kayak would be bothered before noon the next day. Finally, he peeled off the kayak skirt and dry suit, and tucked them into the hollow bow.

  One on top of another, Corban strapped the two forty-pound packs high up on his back for maximum mobility. Only then did he draw an NL-1 air pistol from his belt. Using the light from a series of inland flashing explosions, he checked the non-lethal weapon. Its pellets contained a knockout toxin that, if inhaled, would render a target unconscious for twenty minutes. The NL-1 held thirty pellets adjacent to a CO2 cartridge inside the pistol grip. The weapon wasn't much against live rounds from a Hamas rifle, but Corban hoped he wouldn't come across the militants at all.

  From the other side of his belt that held up his black cargo pants, he tugged his satellite phone and checked the screen. It was still dead. The Israelis were jamming every signal in and around Gaza. But that didn't matter. Corban clipped the sat-phone back onto his belt. As long as he was in and out in twelve hours as planned, nobody would miss him.

  Corban didn't need a GPS for guidance as he left the beach on an eastern
route. He knew Gaza City well, having set up a safe house in the neighborhood of Rimal two years earlier. The refuge had also been a center of operations for three other missions. No one lived at the house, but Lord willing, his Christian contact would be there to escort him to his primary destination.

  The Old City of Gaza sat on a low-lying round hill forty-five feet above sea level, two miles east of the beach and port. Between central Gaza City and the beach lay the residential district of Rimal, originally built on the sand dunes that now caused cracks in the street pavement and blew in swirls through bomb craters. It was around one of these craters that Corban skirted as he moved down an empty street. Stepping onto a crooked sidewalk, he placed his back against a stucco building. Bullet holes peppered the wall at his back, but Corban's eyes were on the dark sky, more concerned about the Israelis mistaking him for a Hamas "freedom fighter."

  He peeked around a corner and saw two Palestinian soldiers dart from a doorway toward him. The sky was dark, but the two men were visible from nearby fires and distant explosions. Each soldier carried an AK-47, the mass-produced and disastrously inaccurate rifle. Corban waited until they were ten feet away, then he emerged from his corner and fired at their chests. They brought their rifles up while still running, but the tranquilizing toxin acted before their trigger fingers could react. They crumbled at Corban's feet and he dragged them to the wall. One of the soldiers appeared to be a teenager. The other one had a thin beard and a Hamas identification card. The Hamas terrorist group—religiously rather than politically-driven—had been voted into Gaza office in 2006. Gaza had never been in worse hands. From the card, Corban confirmed the need to completely avoid the militant. More cautiously now, he jogged down the street, his packs jostling against his shoulder blades.

  When he reached a darkened apartment building that was covered with shrapnel divots, he ducked through an archway and ran down the sidewalk. He ascended steep stairs to the third floor and knocked twice, then twice more. The door cracked open and a familiar face peered out.

  "Open, Jachin," Corban said in Arabic. "I'm here."

  "God be praised!" Jachin Numan threw open the door and kissed Corban on each cheek. "Come!"

  Corban closed the door and locked it. He ensured the windows were adequately sealed with black plastic as Jachin lit a candle in the single bedroom apartment. They were alone in the COIL safe house. Kneeling, Corban unstrapped his packs. Jachin lifted each pack off and set them on a splintered table—the only furniture in the haven besides a mattress leaning against the south wall.

  "You brought everything, Corban?" Jachin's hands worked at a pack's zipper so shakily that Corban had to unzip it for him. "Huldah has only one day of insulin left. We have to get to her tonight!"

  "There's enough here for six months." Corban ran his fingers over vials packed in foam. He understood the man's desperation since Corban had a daughter with medical needs as well. "Be still, my friend. Let me look at you."

  Jachin tore his eyes from the life-saving medication and gazed into Corban's eyes. Both men flinched as a bomb exploded a few blocks away, shaking the walls and dusting the floor.

  "My daughter owes you her life, Corban." Tears welled in his eyes. "My whole family owes you."

  "No, my friend. You owe me nothing. I serve God by helping you, so I'm the one who is thankful." Corban zipped up the pack. "You're thin, Jachin. Have you been eating?"

  "Chard and lentils . . . without the lentils." Jachin grinned, the thirty-four-year-old's malnourishment showing in his discolored gums. "Your presence has filled me."

  "How's your wife? And your son, Levi?"

  "Leah is eternally beautiful, and Levi, even at twelve, keeps the family fed. His courage frightens me when he runs for food and water, but he knows the streets better than me now."

  "And Huldah? She's still embroidering with the needles I brought last time?"

  "She is. Look." Jachin lifted his chin to show his name embroidered in Arabic on his collared shirt. "She's a wonder with the cloth. The neighbors pay us in rice for her patchwork. God has given us amazing children."

  "I have more gifts for them." Corban patted the second pack. "And Bibles. How is the church, my friend?"

  "It's a struggle to meet, but we pray together at three o'clock every day, whether we are all in one place or many. Tell me, Corban, what's that smell?"

  "I arrived by sea." Corban sniffed his black turtleneck. "It was the safest route, but my friends must pay the price for my odor."

  "Oh, it's nothing. Shall we leave? It'll be difficult to reach my house before dawn."

  "Give me a moment."

  Corban moved the mattress away from the wall and used the candlelight to find a lever at the foot of the partition. He yanked on the lever and the wall clicked. A hidden counterweight allowed Corban to swing the entire wall panel up to the ceiling where he braced it open. Behind him, Jachin moved closer and whispered words of amazement.

  The removed wall panel, as large as a garage door, exposed a shallow space packed with NL weapons, water and food rations, and other emergency COIL gear. Corban selected a briefcase and opened it next to the candle. He used a clear adhesive to glue a full beard onto his face, then closed the case. From a stack of vacuum-sealed clothing, he chose a T-shirt with a Lebanese footwear emblem on the front.

  "How do I look?"

  "You look Palestinian, like a loyalist. The Israeli missiles will target you before me."

  "The Israeli missiles will target me as it is." Corban chuckled. "I just don't want to look too Western where we're going."

  "Perhaps you should bring a bigger gun." Jachin nodded at the cache of non-lethal weapons much grander than the air pistol now under Corban's long shirt. "Where we're going, we'll see only Hamas."

  "I can move faster without one."

  Corban closed the secret panel and the room returned to its humble appearance. Jachin blew out the candle and Corban helped him into the lighter of the two packs. After Corban shouldered the other one, he opened the apartment door. They stood in the doorway a moment listening to the gunfire amongst the explosions.

  "They're close," Jachin whispered. "There are rumors Hezbollah will join Hamas in the offensive against Israel. Hamas from here and Hezbollah from Lebanon. Even ISIS is involved, they say, by smuggling weapons to Hamas."

  "Syria and Iran can join if they want," Corban said. "My money is still on Israel. Look. A Saraph helicopter. It's hunting."

  The men watched the Israeli gunship, sister to the American Apache, sweep a street with its mini-guns. It flew on, leaving nothing alive.

  "If anything happens to me . . ." Jachin set a hand on Corban's shoulder. "Be sure to get my daughter the insulin. Huldah will not last another week."

  Placing his hand on Jachin's, Corban prayed.

  "Lord God, You know our mission in these wicked times. Watch over us, we ask, and bless Jachin and Your servants for their faithfulness in this violent land."

  "Amen."

  Corban led the way down the stairs and across the first street. Though he couldn't see the military's eyes far above, he continued to glance skyward. He was now twice as visible with Jachin in tow, but Corban couldn't carry both packs all the way to the Palestinian Christian's house. The young man was weak, but he didn't complain under the heavy load.

  After three blocks, Corban paused to study the next street before crossing. Even without consistent electricity in the city, countless fires acted like street lamps. They were traveling south toward the Zeitoun neighborhood where Jachin's family lived near the football field. Buildings towered around them. When Corban glimpsed a ground force moving south through the rubble a block to their left, he told Jachin.

  "Israeli or Hamas?" Jachin asked at Corban's shoulder.

  "I'm guessing Hamas. Israel wouldn't continue to shell the area if their own ground troops were here." Corban studied Jachin. "How are you not winded? I'm exhausted."

  "My family. I'm compelled beyond exhaustion."

  "Yo
u're a machine, Jachin." Corban saw a dozen more dark figures cross the street in the distance. "Whoever they are, a conflict is sure to meet them soon. We should distance ourselves from them. We'll have to go farther east. It'll set us behind, but we don't have a choice."

  Together, they darted across the pavement. But before they could reach cover, Corban was thrown into the building in front of them. He landed on his side and rolled over to look into Jachin's frightened face.

  "You okay?" Corban helped Jachin to his feet and noticed a crater the size of a car in the street where they had been an instant earlier. "I think that missile was meant for us."

  "My ears are ringing!" Jachin yelled, checking his limbs. "Maybe we should wait until daylight!"

  "Too many people will be about during the day. Besides, Israeli spy planes see in the day or night. Come. Stay close to me."

  Corban dusted off his jacket and crept against the building as he led the way east. He wondered if he would ever retire from this call on his life. Someday, he would have to leave the stealth missions to the younger generation of Christian operatives. But so many were in need around the world. Every available laborer had to be in the field. That meant him as well, Corban mused, even though he had to spend more time away from his wife and daughter.

  "Janice," Corban said aloud, tightening his pack straps, "I hope you're praying for us . . ."

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  Chapter Two

  South Gaza City, Zeitoun District

  "Do I really have to wear this thing?" Annette Sheffield adjusted the chin strap on her United Nations helmet. "There's obviously not a battle right now."

  In the morning light, Belgian Luc Lannoy glanced at Annette. He licked his chapped lips at the sight of the tall American model seated next to him in the Humvee. Though he did prefer she had the helmet off so he could better admire her profile and auburn-colored hair, he had to pretend he cared for her well-being.