The Hand of Christ

by Joseph Nagle

  Michael dropped the phone back into his pocket and raised the rifle to the ready position. As he moved through the gardens with stealth and on the lookout for any enemy reinforcements all he could muster was an inquisitive and quiet: “Go Ahead.”

  The obviously anxious answer could be heard by all at CORe and the two men in the Oval Office; the Professor’s voice was piped in over the Center’s recessed speaker system. “Sir, please confirm,” reading from the TOP SECRET printout in his hand, CPT Scott said, “What time is class today?”

  Immediately, Michael recognized the first part of the authentication code phrase. Before each mission he memorized certain items, including an answer to the very question he was being asked. It would confirm his identity. There were a number of potential responses, each with their own specific meaning.

  “The Professor cancelled class today. He had a death in the family. He needs to get to the airport, and immediately!”

  Michael’s answers were on the short list of potential responses. Each response had a specific translation. Michael had just confirmed his identity, that the US Ambassador had been killed, and that he needed to be extracted.

  “Sir, this is CPT Scott in the CORe Center at NORAD: identity confirmed, message understood, and we are tracking you now. Your extraction-point details are forthcoming.”

  “Professor, this is the Dean,” Director Fundamen had enacted his own code name although it was unnecessary when using the Delta and Omega lines, “I am sorry to hear of our loss, what happened?”

  “Sir, with all due respect, the location of the talks is under heavy attack, and I am injured. I have taken some shrapnel to my thigh and have six confirmed kills.”

  Michael was panting; his head snapped back and forth looking for both the enemy and a way to get out. He didn’t want to appear frantic, but he felt that way.

  “Sir, I have to get out of here. Everyone is dead. Hezbollah is everywhere. There are ground forces with heavy armament, RPG’s, and possible mortar and tank fire, and I have no shoes! My full report will have to wait!”

  “Yes, yes, of course, Michael. We have an extraction team en route. Just under two-kilometers slightly southwest of your location,” looking down at his watch, the Director said, “you have a window of eight-minutes. The CORe Center will guide you.”

  Having heard this, Michael was already moving back through Umayyad’s square and toward the southern part of the mosque. He instantly calculated that he would need to run at a bit over a six-minute mile pace for 1.2 miles. This was doable on an oval race track while wearing running shoes, but in the middle of a battle and barefoot? He would have to run like hell, with shrapnel in his side, and right through the heart of the enemy. He didn’t waste any time.

  “Sir! Sir!” PFC York yelled out. Without waiting for a response, “Sir, I have visual of the Professor! He just exited the south entrance of the building!”

  York spoke into his wireless headset, “Professor, I have you on visual, will guide you to the extraction point.” Fortunately the skies were clear.

  Michael was a bit unnerved to know he was able to be seen real-time from the satellites above. He knew the drill; glancing upward, the overhead reconnaissance satellite would capture an image of his open eye. Within moments the unique markings of the blood vessels that striated the whites of his eyes, along with the colors of his cornea, would be matched to his retina scan on file. It was further proof that he belonged to them.

  The HUMINT Officer bellowed out to CPT Scott, “Sir, have retinal confirmation. He’s our man!”

  CPT Scott simply nodded his head and then looked at PFC York, but said nothing to the Private. York may have a bad attitude with authority, but he knew that York was extremely skilled at live tracking with satellites. He had eyes like an eagle. York’s tracking scores had been the highest that he had ever seen, off the charts; his motor skills and decision making were second to none. If it weren’t for his bad attitude, Scott thought that PFC York would actually make a good soldier.

  “Professor, keep running straight, head two blocks south. Good, good. Now take the next road to your right, and then - wait, wait, STOP!”

  “What the fuck, stop? Kid, I am in the middle of an attack! I’ve got shrapnel in my leg!” Clearly not in the mood to be the only bare-foot, blue-eyed, and bleeding white guy standing still in the middle of a Syrian street holding an AK-47 when a terrorist group is attacking, Michael shouted, “Listen, I don’t have time to stop! Get me the hell out of here!”

  “Sir, enemy combatants approaching, they are one block southwest of your position. There’s an alley to your left, head left now!”

  Michael, in full sprint, immediately turned left into the narrow alley way, “What now, where to?”

  PFC York was now standing; in his hand he had a wireless device that could operate the three NRO satellites that were now triangulated above Damascus. York panned quickly through the images that were now on the large screens at the front of the CORe Center; the visual effects were surreal. From overhead, York could see Michael running through the alley.

  “Raise your weapon!” York screamed, “Fire at the roofline to your left and fifty meters ahead of you!”

  Michael had no choice but to trust the young voice, and, mid-stride, strafed the roofline with a couple of short bursts from the procured AK-47. Through the smoke of the ricocheting bullets a body wearing fatigues fell two stories to the ground and at Michael’s feet.

  CPT Scott and MSGT Bryan looked at one another in muted disbelief.

  “Good eye, kid, where now?”

  “Keep moving straight ahead for one block; look for another alley on your right. Take that alley and head due south for just a bit less than one-click, the alley will curve sharply to your right. The landing zone is an open field, an old unused airport. There will be a small aircraft control tower. You can’t miss it. The extraction point is at the tower.”

  Again, running at nearly a full sprint, Michael saw a second Hezbollah soldier appear on another roof top, the soldier was holding a Russian made model of the Vampir RPG that was different than the one that had thrown him against the wall

  “Do you see him, Professor?”

  “Got him, kid!”

  Just as the Hezbollah soldier fired, Michael dove to the ground.

  Peering through the 1P38 Optical Sight of the RPG, the Hezbollah soldier could faintly make out the eight stabilizing fins snapping open when he fired; they would guide the rocket to its target. The TBV-29G thermobaric anti-personnel round sizzled past Michael and slammed into the wall about one hundred meters ahead of him.

  Thermobaric rounds differ from conventional explosive rounds in that they use atmospheric oxygen to assist their detonation. The vacuum effect creates more explosive energy than conventional rounds but has one disadvantage: it is susceptible to effects from weather. Just as the round neared Michael, an imperceptible shift in pressure caused by a surge in the wind that blew through the alley forced the path of the round slightly from its mark. The wall ahead of Michael absorbed most of the shockwave.

  Ancient brick rained down through a dense wall of dust and smoke and obscured the damage. Momentarily stunned and disoriented, Michael jumped back to his feet and saw a brilliant light ahead where the round had exploded.

  “Go through it Professor, Go through it now! MOVE! RUN THROUGH THE HOLE!” York screamed loudly at Michael and was wholly unaware that every man and woman in the room had long been on their feet. They had moved closer to York and had formed a semi-circle around him.

  Elsewhere, in the oval office of the White House both the President and the Director of Central Intelligence held their collective breaths at the tension.

  York could feel the trickles of hot sweat running down the center of his back as the drops traced the length of his spine. He felt the pounding of his heart beating in the middle of his throat.

  Listening to the Private, Michael ran straight to the light. Jumping through to the other side of the massiv
e hole created by the rocket propelled grenade, Michael fell painfully to the ground and rolled to a stop. When he looked up he could see why York had been so insistent.

  On the other side of the wall Michael could see the tower. A Blackhawk scrubbed of any identifiable markings hovered about three hundred meters away; less than a third of a click. In a full out sprint, Michael could cover that distance in just about a minute even with the shrapnel that screamed in his leg.

  York scanned the screens for enemy activity. He could see Michael anticipating the run to the Blackhawk.

  “Go, sir, Go! The streets are clear!”

  No sooner had he heard the first “Go,” Michael threw the AK-47 to the ground shedding its weight. Sprinting like an Olympian, Michael headed straight to the waiting chopper.

  Man that guy can run, thought York.

  “Sir, you are almost there, keep running, keep...” York’s cut off his own words, “Holy SHIT! Dive to the ground Professor, DIVE NOW, TAKE COVER!”

  Long passed the hesitation to trust the Private’s commands, Michael dove forcefully to the ground just as a twelve-man team of Hezbollah soldiers streamed through the same hole that Michael had just jumped out.

  Michael hit the ground with his face deep in the dirt and grass; what came next instantly sent spirals of icy waves through Michael’s body. A man spoke to him.

  “Don’t move, don’t move one single muscle,” came the unseen voice from directly in front of Michael.

  Michael looked up and from underneath the dry grass in front of him, two furious eyes peered over the barrel of a scope mounted rifle and pierced directly into Michael’s eyes. Barely able to make out the painted camouflage face of the Delta Force sniper that was underneath the ghillie suit, Michael lay there paralyzed. The voice was uniquely American.

  The earth around Michael suddenly seemed to have a soul of its own and undulated to life. Twelve Heckler & Koch HK417 muzzles customized to fit the silencers that were now affixed lifted to the left and right of Michael, including the one now directly over his head. It seemed as if they were coming right through the earth.

  From under their camouflaged positions, and staggered five meters apart, each Delta Force soldier’s rifle let out a silent barrage of multiple round bursts using the powerful 7.62mm round. The Hezbollah soldiers had no idea what hit them as their chests exploded in a mist of red. Instantly they fell, all dead.

  “Sir, get up! We need to move!” shouted the Delta Force soldier in front of Michael who was now on his feet and had Michael by the arm.

  With an unheard command the Blackhawk was much closer than it had been moments ago. The helicopter’s skids lightly touched the ground and its rotors turned at take off speed. The Delta Force soldier that had Michael by the arm threw him into the helicopter and five additional men of the twelve-man Delta force team roughly climbed in afterward. No time to be delicate.

  The Delta Force Team Leader spoke into the small black microphone attached at his ear. “We have the Professor; we are heading back to campus. There will be no students missing from class.”

  We have Michael, and are on our way. There are no casualties.

  A second unmarked Blackhawk materialized from out of nowhere; the remaining members of the Delta Force team were already boarded on it and flying to wherever they were taking Michael.

  Michael could hear the CORe Center erupting in cheers through the wireless ear bud that was still transmitting back to NORAD. Everyone was slapping PFC York on the back. Michael said to York, “You saved my backside twice, son, I owe you and owe you big. Next time I am in town, I am buying the beers.”

  Line Delta terminated.

  Over the center’s speakers the President spoke, “Corporal, you are an asset and a credit to the armed forces; job well done son, job well done.”

  “Thank you, sir, but I am only a PFC,” were the only words that York could dryly muster as a response.

  “York, as the Commander in Chief of the armed forces as well as being the President of the United States, I am sure that you are fully aware that I have certain powers granted to me by the voters of this great nation. Attention to Orders!”

  The President called to the position of attention the entire CORe Center. Colonel Fleetship had just walked in and could barely fathom what he was hearing and witnessing.

  Everyone in the room was standing as erect as he had ever seen, at the position of attention. The distinct voice of the President of the United States could be heard overhead.

  The President continued, “As the Commander in Chief, with all rights and powers assigned, for your commendable actions today and actions above the call of duty, you have shown yourself to be a credit to the United States Army and to the men and women with which you serve. By the powers granted to me, I hereby bestow upon Private First Class York the rank of Corporal with all privileges warranted. Godspeed, Corporal York. CPT Scott, you have a damn fine soldier there.”

  Line Omega disconnected. There was dead silence in the room.

  A red faced Colonel Fleetship screamed, “Would somebody please tell just what in the HELL is going on here!”

  Chapter Eleven

  Umayyad Mosque

  Damascus, Syria

  The battle was over. Many were dead. The rest of the soldiers had retreated leaving only bullet casings, bomb fragments, and destruction.

  A lone man walked with caution toward Saladin’s tomb; he had to be careful not to be seen. He looked left and then right; the streets were still empty. This was good, it would make things easier. Stealthily, he entered Saladin’s tomb and scanned the damaged and sacrilege throughout. Bullet holes had split portions of the walls; shattered pieces of reflective green and white marble were strewn about the floor.

  He stepped closer to the two sarcophagi of the mausoleum and saw that pieces of the splintered wood from the walnut sarcophagus of Saladin covered the body and face of a Hezbollah soldier. The soldier had fought well, but, fortunately, not well enough. He removed some of the pieces of wood from the dead soldier’s face, and saw that his eyes were still open. Reaching in, he closed the soldier’s eyes and then closed his own in a silent prayer.

  Opening his eyes, the glimmer of a something metallic attracted his attention, “Ah, what do we have here?” Kneeling closer to the ground, a butt of a weapon protruded slightly from under the sarcophagus. Picking it up, he inspected the weapon. It was a custom made chrome-plated Colt .45, and designed specifically for its owner. Turning the weapon over, he eyed the serial number, his training taught him that the unique number meant that it belonged to the CIA Officer.

  “Americans can be a bit sloppy, this will make things easier,” he pleasantly muttered out loud. He stood up and slipped the weapon into his pocket. Quickly, he exited the tomb. Once outside, he pulled an olive drab hat from his pocket. But before putting it on, he first gazed to the sky and basked momentarily as the heat from the morning’s fresh sunlight warmed his thick cheeks. Smiling, he put on the hat, adjusted its fit, and then stroked his long black beard. At these moments the beard seemed to punish him slightly, he reached to his chin and scratched at it for a moment. The itch gone, he vanished into the city a new man.

  Chapter Twelve

  Home of the Ayatollah

  Tehran, Iran

  The Grand Ayatollah – Mustafa Mohamed Moseini – of Iran was troubled. Earlier he had received word that Hezbollah had attacked the Grand Mosque of Umayyad in Damascus, killing the ambassadors of Lebanon, Syria, the US, and Israel. The Ayatollah was a small man, severely hunched at the shoulders, and wearing every year of his hard life in the dark creases of his face as he neared ninety years of age. The news of the attack forced his consternation to deepen those creases and his head to throb. Reaching up with both hands, he rubbed his temples and then sighed deeply.

  This attack would severely alter matters in the Middle East; his only thoughts were on damage control. How would he address the Council? His people would be calling for revenge; how could he p
ossibly pacify them?

  He sat in his office which occupied the eastern most corner of his home, and stared out over the smog filled streets of Tehran. The day had been unusually hot, and added to his troubles. Compulsively, he stroked his long white beard to the point that his chin had begun to complain from the pain. He hadn’t moved for nearly an hour, immobilized by a difficult and desolate concern; he was deeply confused by Hezbollah’s attack.

  In 2003, he was elected by the eighty-six Mujtahids – virtuous and learned clerics – of the Assembly of Experts. It would be his duty as the Supreme Leader of Iran to answer the impending accusations from the Western world and the questions by the National Security Council.

  He knew that it would be inevitable. Whenever Hezbollah was involved in any armed conflict, the Western powers always gazed first at Iran. They knew of Iran’s financial support of Hezbollah; their support of Hezbollah was no secret. In decades past, Iran had backed the organization with training, weapons, and direction. But, that was then. Since that time, Hezbollah had evolved and Iran’s involvement along with it, too – Iran simply supported the essence of Hezbollah’s social work in Lebanon.

  The West would say that he was the Commander-in-Chief and had sole authority over the military and declarations of war, and that he was directly responsible for the attack; therefore, Iran was responsible. He must choose his words carefully.

  There was no way for him to know that he would never get the chance.

  It had been the Iranian Revolutionary Guards, equipped with weapons sold to them by the US through Israel during the Iran-Contra Affair, which trained the infant “Party of God” to resist the Israeli occupation of Lebanon in 1982. The Shi’a Islamic group took their inspiration from the Supreme Leader’s predecessor, the Ayatollah Khomeini.

  Since then, Hezbollah had instituted in Lebanon a system of productive schools, hospitals, and agricultural services for thousands of Lebanese. It was a legitimate provider of social services and a legitimate force in politics, even having received Syrian blessings.