CABAL (The Vatican Knights Book 9)

by Rick Jones

  But he had every intention of getting these children to safety.

  All of them.

  But sometimes promises couldn’t be kept no matter how hard an individual tries to keep them.

  Life just didn’t work that way.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Office of the SIV. Vatican Intelligence

  Vatican City

  Fathers Auciello and Essex stood along the main floor of the SIV examining the live sky-view feeds. Even though the cloud cover from the haboob had moved on, it still left a brownish tinge in the air. But the veil had thinned enough to see a large area of the landscape.

  A few kilometers south of the church was a wreckage of some kind, with black coils of smoke rising skyward from it as lazy drifts.

  “Zoom in, please,” said Father Auciello.

  Father Essex manned the keyboard and typed in a series of commands. The lens of the satellite adjusted, homed in, then it automatically focused to crystal clarity. The wreckage of the extraction chopper lay in twisted ruins, the metal blackened by the flames. The rotors had broken into a myriad pieces and had scattered across the landscape, some as far as three hundred meters.

  Their first thought was that the extraction team had been blown from the sky. But further search revealed bodies outside the church, a twisted pickup, and a Vatican Knight—Nahum?

  “They could be inside the chopper,” Father Essex remarked. Then he took it upon himself to zoom out of position to grab a better overall view of the terrain from the lens’ perspective of 10X, or ten thousand meters above the land surface.

  He maneuvered the lens to the east, then to the south where the lens picked up a serpentine trail of dust similar to a contrail of a plane. Father Essex zoomed in. A small convoy of weapons-mounted pickup trucks were moving at an urgent rate of speed toward the south.

  “Back it up,” said Father Auciello, “and move it to the south.”

  Essex did, playing the keyboard like a skilled pianist.

  At first they spotted nothing. But to the southwest and closer to Damascus, though the desert was barren for hundreds of kilometers from their position, sat two vehicles. Father Essex closed in with a few more strikes of the keys, and targeted the group. As state-of-the-art as the technology was, it still had its limitations. Beneath the dirty canopy of floating dust particles were two vehicles. That much could be seen. Along with several people—far too many for just two vehicles.

  “Can you get closer?” asked Father Auciello.

  Father Essex nodded. No. So they did a body count: twenty-one people, some obviously smaller than the rest. Children?

  “It has to be them,” Father Essex commented. “The chopper went down, obviously. Where they got the vehicles is anyone’s guess.”

  “How far behind is the convoy bearing down on them?”

  Essex hit additional buttons, creating a computing line in bright red that connected points A to B. The calculation between the two sets of vehicles was sixty-two kilometers, or just over thirty-seven miles. “Just more than a half hour away,” answered Essex. “But if they keep on this heading, they’ll miss them completely and keep heading south. They’ll go right by them.”

  “Maybe not,” said Father Auciello. “Zoom twenty kilometers ahead to the south,” he said. “Keep to the same track.”

  When Father Essex zoomed in, he suddenly became aware of Father Auciello’s concern. The haboob erased all traces of their southerly journey. But once the haboob passed and there were no longer sweeping winds to cover up the tracks, the twin-tire tracks from Kimball’s unit stood out and trailed to the southwest to their current position. If Sayed’s team was moving a few degrees to the southeast instead of the southwest, then they’d miss the tracks entirely. But at the current heading to the south and marginally to the west, they would come right on top of them.

  “Unless they change angles,” said Auciello, “They cross right over Kimball’s tracks.”

  Father Essex concurred.

  Then from Auciello: “Have you tried the sat-phone?”

  “We’re getting through. But the white noise is so thick we can’t establish any real connection. The dust is still running interference.”

  Father Auciello stepped away from the console. “Then we keep on trying,” he said. “If that is Kimball down there, then he needs to know that a team is coming up fast behind them. How much longer until they come across the tracks in the sand?”

  “If they keep to this heading, maybe fifteen minutes.”

  Father Auciello went to the Comm Center to establish communication with Kimball and his team.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Rome, Italy

  Four separate teams of the Islamic State had set up shop inside of Rome in four separate hostels. One was close to the Colosseum, a magnificent view. In this particular hostel was a man by the name of Raamiz, the de facto leader of all four groups of the Islamic State inside of Italy’s borders.

  There were three per group of four groups, a total of twelve jihadists picked to die for a cause in the name of Allah. He was with two others, Mamman and Pathros, idealists who believed that the way to Paradise was by the slaughter of many. First on the agenda were the soft targets in St. Peter’s Square. Then if Allah willed it, they would move on to a far more tactical difficulty in targeting the Apostolic Palace where Pope Pius XIV resides.

  Mamman and Pathros placed two large suitcases on the bed, flipped back the clasps, and opened the lids. On the surface encased in soft moldings were broken-down assault weapons. Beneath the moldings were thin bricks of Semtex, wire detonators, and vests designed with several pockets to hold the explosives.

  Raamiz picked up a brick, still in its thin plastic covering, then lifted and lowered it as if weighing the product, and returned it to its rightful slot inside the suitcase.

  “We are set,” Mamman stated. “Allah watches over us, yes?”

  Raamiz moved to the window, pulled back the shutters, and studied the city below. People moved about on their scooters and small-sized vehicles. Or milled about—some alone but most in pairs—with no one the wiser. In two days’ time Rome would erupt in mayhem and chaos. This protective bubble these people lived in would finally burst and a new world would rise where violence would become the norm until everyone was united under the banner of Islam.

  In two days’ time, he thought. Then to answer Mamman’s question he said, “Yes, Mamman, Allah watches over us all. And he will continue to do so. For in two days Allah will flex his mighty power against the infidels through us . . . And in two days we will be dining in Paradise.”

  But in the next forty-eight hours plans had to be pored over with the most critical eye leaving nothing to mistake or chance; all the roads leading into Vatican City had to be studied and driven in dry runs until their timing was perfected; paths of least resistance leading to the Apostolic Palace would be surveyed; and security forces would be documented, then timed for the changing of the so-called guard, and, hopefully, a chance to discover their weakest points.

  They would sleep little, work hard, and they would do it to martyr themselves because there was no greater honor.

  In two days they would initiate an agenda that would bring the major religions to global confrontation. In two days their lives would come to a quick and brutal end. And in two days under a prognosticated fine-weather day under a blue sky, the foundation of Catholicism would be severely rocked with the news of Pope Pius’ death.

  In two days.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The Apostolic Palace

  The Vatican

  Pope Pius XIV was enjoying a light breakfast of oatmeal and orange juice, when he was informed by Cardinal Anzalone that the Vatican Knights had come into problems with their mission in Syria. Satellite images showed a downed chopper close to the church; signs of a skirmish with—perhaps—a Vatican Knight lying dead; and all attempts of making contact had failed due to a passing haboob, the dust cover causing interference.

/>   “Were they in the chopper when it went down?” asked the pontiff.

  Cardinal Anzalone shrugged. “It’s unknown at this time, Your Holiness. We’re working to establish confirmation on that. However, additional satellite images show two vehicles seventy kilometers south of the church’s position with nearly two dozen people gathered at that point. Most of the images appear to be children—fourteen, in fact, along with seven adults. This may simply be a caravan of Syrians running from the conflict. But it’s something the SIV is trying to determine at this point.”

  Pope Pius nodded thoughtfully. “Since the chopper is down, and if it is Kimball that they see, is there a way out?”

  “Air space to the north is closed off due to tensions with Russia and Turkey. The Islamic State is keeping a vigilant eye as well, having obtained ground-to-air missiles. That leaves south, to Jordan, or west into Israel. Either country may be willing to host them since they see ISIS as a threat to their sovereignty.” Then after a substantial pause Cardinal Anzalone added: “But there’s another problem.”

  Pope Pius looked at the man for the first time.

  “It appears that two teams are running to intercept this caravan,” he said. “One is heading from the north, from the position of the church and heading south. The other is coming from Damascus. The one from the north is close, maybe thirty to forty kilometers away. The one from Damascus is still a distance away, but closing fast.”

  “These vehicles, do they move with a sense of urgency?”

  “They do.”

  The pontiff eased back into his seat and gingerly tossed the napkin over his half-eaten bowl of oatmeal. “Please inform the SIV to keep trying. If it is the Vatican Knights and a hostile element is closing on their position from the north, then we must do all we can to warn them. In the meantime, is there anything we can do to provide support?”

  “Father Auciello has contacted supporters in Jordan and Israel, but neither are willing to risk a search-and-rescue mission deep inside Syrian borders with their personal units at this time, since the authority of the Syrian government remains shaky. They will, however, commit to an operation if the Vatican Knights can somehow get to within thirty to forty kilometers from their borders.”

  “And how far away are they now?”

  “At least six hundred kilometers.” Or three hundred sixty miles. “What makes Syria so dangerous is the number of radicals manning RPGs from unseen positions inside the Syrian range. The risks are too high.”

  “Can we get additional Knights to their position?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Cardinal Anzalone. “By the time we’re able to deploy a unit, the intercepting vehicles will already be on top of them. If that is Kimball, then he’s going to have to fight his way out.”

  “Have the SIV ask permission from Jordan and Israel if they’ll allow Vatican forces to launch units from their military bases strictly as search-and-rescue operations. If it is Kimball, he’ll know enough to maintain his course. More so, he knows how to fight his way through a crowd and come out on top.”

  Cardinal Anzalone bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Yes, Your Holiness.”

  As soon as Cardinal Anzalone left, Pope Pius labored to his feet and, with the aid of a cane, made his way to the window that overlooked the courtyard. The day was beautiful. The sky was a uniform blue. And the flowers bloomed in a riot of fired-up colors.

  Pope Pius closed his eyes.

  And he prayed for Kimball and the children of Syria.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Sayed was moving at a top speed of 130 kilometers per hour, or 78 miles per hour by American standards, over such rough and road-less terrain, until they came upon a pair of twin tracks that ran west.

  Sayed stopped the mobiles, got out of the pickup, and allowed his eyes to trace the lines that ran along the rise to the horizon, then disappear on the other side. “They go west!” he shouted. “Toward Israel! We must contact the unit from Damascus immediately and tell them to go south!”

  Lukose, Sayed’s communicator, was on the sat-phone and immediately redirected the Damascus unit to head south. With close communication and a GPS to pass off coordinates to one another, they would be able to converge on their target and take them out.

  As Lukose was making contact, Sayed followed the tracks and topped the knoll, which overlooked a rocky landscape. The tire tracks continued west. But the vehicles that created them could not be seen. And visibility was at least ten kilometers.

  When he returned to the vehicle he pointed in the direction for his driver to take. The driver turned west, as did the others, and began to pursue their quarry.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The moment Jeremiah closed the hood of the vehicle, the sat-phone sitting on the bumper chirped. He picked it up and pressed the ‘on’ button. There was still the marginal static of white noise, but not enough to affect the words coming over line. It was Father Auciello, who had information for Kimball.

  As soon as the phone was passed to Kimball, he merely stated, “We’ve been trying to get through.”

  “Yeah. Same here. But there was lingering obstruction from the haboob.” Then: “The chopper?”

  “RPG. It appears that members of the Islamic State were at the church. We lost Nahum and Father Jenkins. But we secured sixteen: fourteen children and two nuns.”

  “We have your position,” stated Auciello. He sounded a million miles away, not exactly a great connection. “And you have tangos moving directly toward your position.”

  “How far out?”

  “Twelve kilometers east of your position. They’re following the tracks.”

  Kimball lowered the sat-phone and looked east. Sayed’s team was still quite a ways off since he could not see dust clouds forming in the wake of turning tires. But given time, maybe a few minutes, he eventually would.

  Kimball brought the phone back to his ear. “We’re heading west to Israel, to the Golan Heights,” he said. “And we may not have the fuel resources to get us all the way there.”

  “We’re speaking with Israel about units responding as a search-and-rescue team from their borders. But at this point neither Israel nor Jordan are willing to stage an intervention so deep inside Syrian territory, given the fragile state of the Syrian government.”

  “So we’re all alone out here?”

  “I’m sorry, Kimball. Jordan and Israel will not respond unless the assets are high-profile. Apparently orphaned children don’t come under such criteria. All I can tell you is this: Get as close to the Golan Heights as possible. We’ll handle the rest since they have given us permission to launch from their shores.”

  “That may be impossible,” said Kimball. “There’re only two vehicles between twenty-one people and little fuel. Even if we were able to siphon gas from one tank and put it into the other, one vehicle cannot transport everyone.”

  “Kimball, we’re doing everything possible on our end. But we can only do what hosting governments will allow us to do. Somehow, some way, you need to find a way.”

  Kimball wanted to smash the phone to pieces. But he fought for calm. “We’ll head as far west as much as we can. Anything else I should know about?”

  “Actually, yes. There’s an intercepting unit moving to your position from Damascus. We’re assuming that the following unit is directing the second unit to your location via coordinates from a GPS system.”

  Kimball started to grind his teeth, causing the muscles in the back of his jaw to work. His promise to Sister Kelly about keeping the children safe seemed bleaker with every passing moment.

  “Father Auciello, work miracles if you have to,” Kimball finally said. “Because we’re all out of them here on our end. If they capture these children and these nuns, you know what they’ll do to them.”

  “I know, Kimball. All I can say is that I’m sorry and that we’re doing everything in our power to see that you get aid as soon as possible. Now you better move. Our screen is showing the convoy less th
an eight kilometers out.”

  Kimball looked to the east. In the distance he could see dust clouds rising along the horizon. “Yeah, I see them,” he said. “Get on this, Father.”

  “I will.”

  Kimball cut off the call by pressing the ‘off’ button with his thumb, but never took his eyes off the approaching vehicles. Then he did a quick calculation. They were five: Jeremiah, Isaiah, Samuel, Solomon and himself. The radicals were—with three to a vehicle if they remained consistent with those they fought at the church—nine. And since running would only be a futile gesture at best, the only position left to them was to take up a manageable defense by way of offense.

  Kimball looked at the mounted weaponry on the backs of the pickups. They had plenty of ammo. Then he looked over the terrain and noted the rises and falls, the hillocks and natural berms.

  In the distance, the cloud banks seemed to rise and get thicker as Sayed’s unit neared.

  Kimball called his team to gather. Since time was not a luxury, orders had to be issued with quick utterances. Kimball and Jeremiah would man one vehicle, while Isaiah and Samuel helmed the other. Solomon would watch over the sisters and the children as they hid behind a natural sand bank.

  Just as Kimball mounted the bed of a pickup and took position behind the machine gun, he noticed that he was being held by a stare from Sister Kelly. One that said: you promised to keep us safe.

  Kimball meant well. He truly did. But Sister Kelly didn’t seem to care about good intentions as she was ushered behind the hillock with her gaze remaining sharp and piercing, until she and the children disappeared out of sight.

  Checking the .50 caliber and racking the weapon, Kimball slapped the hood of the pickup. It was time to do battle.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Rome, Italy

  Raamiz and his well-coordinated team had rented four vehicles, all cube vans, and attached the Semtex bricks to the inside walls. The bricks had been wired and connected to a detonation switch to be held by the driver. If the driver should ever become incapacitated before reaching his specific target, then the unit would automatically revert to a failsafe system of a dead-man’s switch and go off nevertheless, though he may fall short of his desired goal.