by Rick Jones
When Lukose went to make the call, Sayed once again raised the binoculars and set his sights. The large man was still there with a pinning stare that was quite disturbing to Sayed, even from a distance. “Perhaps Lukose is right,” he stated softly to himself. “Perhaps you are the devil’s magician.”
Kimball continued to stare.
Even from a great distance.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
“You see something?” asked Isaiah, joining him on the rise.
Kimball nodded. “Yeah. Maybe six, seven kilometers out. I’m seeing glints of light reflecting off glass. All from the same position.”
“The unit that got away yesterday.” Isaiah confirmed what Kimball was already thinking.
“They’ll stay close and monitor our movements. I’m assuming they’ll stay in contact with the unit running our way from Damascus.” He turned to face Isaiah, the first time he looked away from the horizon in a long while. “Have Jeremiah get on the sat-phone. I want to know where we are in relation to any and all hostiles heading our way.” He turned toward the horizon and pointed. “And tell them to get a fix on whatever that is that’s out there. I want to know what I’m up against.”
“You got it.”
Kimball lowered his arm. The man had legitimate concerns. The operation was supposed to be a simple airlift with a window of opportunity to fly through open airspace to the northwest in between Russian airstrikes. That window had closed long ago after they had run into a hornet’s nest. Now they were on the run with extremely limited options.
Kimball saw another glint, a quick flash like a spangle of light. I should have tracked you down like the animal you are, Kimball thought, regretting his faux pas. I should have given us a chance.
Then he thought of the children, Sisters Patty and Kelly, and his team.
I should have taken you out.
In the distance along the rim of the horizon, Kimball saw another flash of light.
#
Less than ten minutes later Isaiah returned by Kimball’s side on the hillock. “Jeremiah just got off with the SIV,” he said.
“And?”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“Probably not. But let’s hear it anyway.”
Isaiah did. Confirming a single mobile unit sitting off in the distance, as well as the number of units heading right at them from Damascus in a straight line, or the shortest distance between two points. Sayed was no doubt providing them with their position coordinates. He also told him about the distance of approaching vehicles, and that the SIV was doing everything in their power to get a little cooperation from the Israeli and Jordanian governments, who wanted to know exactly the ‘who, what and whys’ of this military unit, and the reasons behind a covert mission. The Vatican was beginning to find itself in a quagmire after trying to do the right thing.
“It just gets better,” Kimball commented sarcastically.
“Orders?”
Kimball nodded. “We may have to move east,” he said.
“To Iraq?”
“We may have no other choice. The Damascus team will cut off our route to Israel, maybe even to Jordan. Governments are reluctant to run interference because of the fragile situation of ruling leaders and radical factions. So that leaves us with an opening into Iraq, unless there’re strongholds between us and the Iraqi border. But there’s another problem,” he added. “If we’re forced to Iraq, we may not have the fuel to get there. And do you want to know what’s ironic about this?”
“What’s that?”
“We’re surrounded by all this oil and there’s nothing we can do about it.” He offered Isaiah a false smile, one that lacked any semblance of hope. “Prepare the children,” he said. “It’s time to move.”
“South?”
“For now.”
Isaiah did, returning and waving his hand for the children to gather and load up.
Kimball looked skyward. It was a beautiful day. Blue sky. A mellow breeze. Dry atmosphere. But this façade was nothing but a smokescreen. Soon the sky would be black with smoke. The breeze would carry the stench of death. And the sand would run red with the blood of children.
He looked toward the horizon. This time he saw no glint, no spangle of light. But he knew Death was out there watching.
Getting inside the bed of a pickup that was to be shared with Sister Kelly and seven children, Kimball slapped the panel to let Jeremiah know that everyone had been secured, and headed south.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Papal Chamber, Apostolic Palace
Vatican City
Bonasero Vessucci, Pope Pius XIV, was sitting behind the papal desk inside a chamber within the Apostolic Palace, which was actually a series of apartments connected. This particular chamber led to a balcony that overlooked St. Peter’s Square, which also served as the platform to address the masses.
Today, however, it acted as a closed forum to discuss agendas regarding matters of intel.
Fathers Auciello and Essex were sitting in wing-backed chairs in front of the papal desk, and both were leafing through photographs and documents.
But it was Father Auciello who spoke first. “They’re not in a good position,” he stated. “Not at all.”
Father Essex also weighed in. “We’re getting minimal cooperation from the Jordanians and the Israeli government, they are more concerned with the machinations of the covert operation rather than providing essential aid. Right now these governments want to know everything—given their fragile psyche that stems from terrorist activity in the region—about what’s going on before they allow our presence. They don’t want to aggravate an already volatile situation in the Middle East, especially in Syria. So of course, this is taking up valuable time we really don’t have.”
“What’s Kimball’s best hope?” asked Bonasero. The pontiff appeared gravely concerned.
“They’re making a run to the Jordanian border,” said Father Essex with his thick British inflection. Then he offered the pope a series of photos in chronological order. “However . . .”
The word hung too long in the air for Bonasero. “However what?”
“However, even if the Jordanians offer assistance, there’s an ISIS unit running right at them from Damascus. At their rate of speed and their angle of direction . . . they will intercept Kimball and his team before they get to the Jordanian border.” Then: “If you’ll look at the first photo, Your Holiness.”
Bonasero did. It was an overview black-and-white photo of a mobile caravan. A total of ten heavily-mounted pickup trucks were shown kicking up a trail of sand in their wake, as they made their way to the southeast. “What am I looking at?”
“That’s the ISIS unit making its way across the Syrian Desert. “Ten vehicles. All armed. And all with a purpose.”
“To catch orphaned children?”
“Not all the children are orphans. Nor are they just Christian,” said Father Auciello.
“There is one among them who is different. A Muslim child who is as innocent as the company of children he keeps. We’ve been informed by Jeremiah that they have the son of Mabus.”
Bonasero Vessucci looked at them questioningly. “Mabus?”
Father Auciello nodded. “Mabus is believed to be the mastermind behind the recent rash of terrorist attacks in Egypt, Turkey, Lebanon, and is believed to have engineered the recent attacks in Paris to some degree. In fact, he has become the objective of capture by the CIA, the Mossad and MI6. Most recently he has threatened to march on Rome. But we believe he meant the Vatican, which of course is a sovereign state separate of Rome. But we believe that Vatican City is his true mark.”
“Are we safe?”
“That would be for security to answer, Your Holiness. But I believe we are.”
“So Kimball is running from—how many?”
“Ten heavily armed vehicles,” he answered. “The Vatican Knights are severely outnumbered, outgunned, and the ISIS squad from Damascus is closing fast to their
position.”
“So they’ve been cut off their routes to Israel and maybe Jordan. So that would leave what option, if any?”
“They could head east to Iraq,” said Auciello.
“Then see it done.”
“There is a problem, however,” stated Father Essex. “They have minimal fuel. According to Jeremiah they don’t have nearly enough to get there. But they do have enough to get to Jordan.”
“Where they’ll be intercepted?”
“From what we can tell,” answered Father Auciello, “yes.”
“This boy—this son of Mabus—is running from the tyranny of his father?”
“He is. He’s terrified of the man.”
“Then we shall save this boy along with the rest of the children. If I have to speak to the Jordanian government directly rather than through the emissaries of the Holy See, I shall. In the meantime, you do what you must to see the Vatican Knights through this.”
“Of course, Your Holiness.”
After they left the chamber, Bonasero pored over the photos. At the bottom of each one was a penned-in description detailing what the photo was a picture of. He set the first aside, the photo of the intercepting mobile units.
The second was an overhead view of a single pickup truck several kilometers away from Kimball’s team, a scout vehicle that directed the intercepting team with constant and detailed reports, giving GPS coordinates as to current positions. He set the photo on top of the first.
The third photo appeared to be an overhead view from low-level space which showed the landscapes of Syria, Lebanon, Israel, Jordan and Iraq. On the photo was a yellow line that marked the distance between Kimball’s unit and the Damascus team, as well as a myriad of red dots that represented presumed ISIS strongholds east and west of Kimball’s position, for which there were many.
Bonasero set the photo aside and eased back into his chair.
It had become obvious that Kimball was on the defense in a land filled with hostiles. And governments were unwilling to lend a helping hand because of the fragile state of Syria’s ability to command and control ISIS, whose reach had suddenly become long and deadly. Unless countries like Jordan and Israel had personal agendas mandated by political principals to protect or preserve their own interests, nothing else mattered because they didn’t want to rattle sabers and bring the blight of the Islamic State upon themselves. Right now ISIS appeared to be centering their concentrations by spreading into Europe, as well as in the United States where radicals were galvanizing themselves to take out soft targets, starting in San Bernardino.
And the Vatican, he thought, is not immune, either. They will eventually come to wreak havoc, as promised.
His eyes shifted and settled once again on the photos. Kimball was in trouble. As were the Vatican Knights, the children they protected, and Sisters Patty and Kelly. Members of the Islamic State knew no boundaries. They would catch Kimball’s team and kill them all, one-by-one, men, women and children, by loping off their heads in primal ritual.
Pope Pius XIV closed his eyes. Kimball was like a son to him and he the father who guided and directed Kimball towards the Light of Salvation Kimball had always sought, but always fell short of its embrace because the Vatican Knight continuously crossed over the dividing line and moved into Darkness, often choosing the way of damnation over salvation in order to help those who couldn’t help themselves. His methods were often brutal and violent. But sometimes there was no other way to achieve the means because in Kimball’s mind it was a sick world out there, and it was getting sicker by the day. There would be no handshakes or smiles of good will. There would be no intentions of trust by believing that the other guy would eventually come around and perform good deeds to others. Human nature was often cruel and savage. And people like Kimball Hayden were the neutralizers who leveled the playing field with one true weapon: equal savagery.
He opened his eyes.
He knew Kimball to be a good man who believed that he would never see the Light of Loving Spirits, no matter how hard Kimball tried to find it. Life would never allow him to. But in the eyes of those surrounding Kimball, they knew that he had reached the Light long ago. Kimball just needed to open his eyes and see, rather than continuing to be blind to it.
Bonasero leafed through the photos one last time with full examination. If they continued on their path toward Jordan, then they would most likely be intercepted and their fates all but written by the blood that courses through their veins. Heading for Israel and to the Golan Heights had already been ruled out. So that left Iraq, still an unwelcoming choice.
With ties to ninety-percent of the countries across the globe, the pontiff still wielded incredible power with governments worldwide. He would have the bishops of the Holy See act as a liaison between the Vatican and to whatever country who was willing to support the needs of the Vatican, even if the country was entrenched by Muslim faith like Iraq. He would contact Jordan, and then Iraq, and personally chair the dialogue between two heads of state between a religious icon and a political principal, with both hoping to come to an understanding that intervention would be necessary in such a matter.
Though the battle for such intervention would be a hard fought one, countries did not want to get inside the crosshairs of ISIS factions since they were that powerful and intimidating. To voice or act against such a regime often brought hardship by retaliation.
He returned the photo taken from low-level space, the one with the geometric lines and numbers giving interception points and probable ETAs of capture, given their speeds and distance to travel.
May God direct you, Kimball, he thought. Because you’ll need His guidance to get you through this.
Bonasero Vessucci prayed.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Central Syria
The House of Mabus
Abbad Chahine was the conduit to Mabus and the rest of the world. What Mabus desired, Chahine relayed the messages to second lieutenants all over the globe through couriers. Right now, Chahine was in constant contact with the people in Rome.
“They’re in the final stages of preparation,” Chahine informed Mabus. “Today is a day for prayer. Tomorrow they strike.”
Mabus was sitting inside a stone house with stone walls and a floor of hard-packed earth. The windows were closed off with shutters, no glass, and the rooms were quite spartan with few chairs, a cushion that acted as a futon, a table layered with maps and tomes of religious scripture, bare walls devoid of framed paintings or photographs. But there was light as bulbs hung from links of chain that went from room to room. As Chahine spoke, Mabus appeared disinterested as he ate from a bowl containing some kind of stringy meat, perhaps goat.
While spooning greasy meat into his mouth with the tips of his fingers, Mabus said, “Paris was but the initial blow, the punch that set the world on its toes. But this, Chahine, will set the world on fire. Everyone will know that the Islamic State can reach anywhere at any time. No one is safe. No matter who or where they are . . . no one is safe. Allah sees all.” Then as a sidetrack: “And my son?” He continued to spoon food into his mouth without looking at Chahine, one greasy morsel after another.
“Sayed’s group failed in their quest,” he said.
Mabus stopped chewing. When he directed his line of sight to Chahine and gave him a pointed stare, Chahine felt his scrotum crawl. He knew the look and the anger that seethed beneath the man’s exterior.
With bits of food clinging around the surface of Mabus’ mouth and beard, he said, “Failed? In what way did Sayed fail?”
“We received word from Sayed that a . . . priest . . . had committed an offensive against Sayed’s team and took out two mobile units. Six are dead. But Sayed managed to get away. And now he keeps pace with the group who holds Farid. He’s in contact with the group from Damascus and updates them constantly with current coordinates of their position. Right now a group of ten vehicles are on an intercept route. Your son and the company he keeps will never reach Jor
dan.”
Mabus nodded as if this was acceptable, then went back to spooning his food. “And how long before they intercept this . . . priest?”
“Hours. But there’s something else,” he said.
“What?”
“This priest. Sayed says he’s a soldier. It’s not Father Jenkins but someone else. He says that you may have heard of him . . . The priest who is not a priest.”
Mabus stopped chewing and suddenly carried this distant look as if he was staring right through the bricks of the stone wall before him. Everyone in his line of work had heard of this ‘priest who was not a priest.’ Some had sworn by the name of Allah that they had seen this man and had fought against him, only for this priest to come at them again and again with a cursed power even Allah couldn’t strike down. But of course no such man existed. But all legends always had a foundation of truth, no matter how embellished the stories had become over the years. Then he waved his hand in dismissal and went back to his bowl. “Myth,” was all he said.
Then after a few more bites and placing the bowl to the side, then wiping the tips of his greasy fingers against his clothes, he added, “The priest may be a soldier. Maybe an American, a Brit, or maybe even a Frenchman with scores to settle. But he’s a man all the same. So after you find my son and kill off those that my son finds comfort with, bring me this priest who is not a priest, and I will show you that he dies like any other man. And that the power and will of Allah has no equal.
“In the meantime, keep me posted regarding the assault team in Rome,” Mabus added. “Tomorrow will be a glorious day. The Vatican will come under siege, my boy will be at my side, and what better way to celebrate by a showing of victory by the killing of a priest who, as you say, is not a priest, by butchering him like a goat before the feast in play. And with the Vatican about to be in ruins, I shall reign as the ruling caliph.” Then he raised his finger to emphasize a point. “But there’s so much more to do, Chahine. This battle will be long fought. And to do so means that I need my son beside me. Should anything happen to him, then I will hold Sayed personally responsible. Is this clear?”